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Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


^E^^^«i*stes4M»asass»!W£«%««>^Mww 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  m^thode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquds  ci-dessous. 


a 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagde 


D 
D 


Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 


□    Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur6e  et/ou  pelliculde 


D 


Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


D 
D 


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Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  ddcolor^es,  tachetdes  ou  piqudes 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 


D 


Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tach6es 


□    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


D 


Showthrough/ 
Transparence 


□    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


D 


Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Quality  indgale  de  I'impression 


D 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 


D 


Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 


D 


D 


Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
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La  reliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
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Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
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II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutdes 
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mais,  lorsque  cela  dtait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  film6es. 


D 
D 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

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obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  filmdes  d  nouveau  de  faqon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


D 


Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires: 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmd  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu6  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


12X 


16X 


20X 


m 


24X 


26X 


30X 


28X 


32X 


1 


ire 

details 
les  du 
modifier 
ler  une 
filmage 


6es 


re 


y  errata 
id  to 

nt 

fie  pelure, 

qon  d 


I 
I 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanlcs 
to  the  generosity  of: 

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Photoduplication  Service 

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Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
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first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — »>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


1 

2 

3 

L'exemplaire  filmd  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g^n^rositd  de: 

Library  of  Congress 
Photoduplication  Service 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
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conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exempSci/es  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimde  sont  film^s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  sekon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film^s  en  commenpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — '»-  siqnifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "JPIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film^s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


1  2  3 

4  5  6 


^Tjfe^sffii^         > — vc/r  — .>pci-,iw:i3r  • 


-N 


Ki:W  ExNGLAND: 


A 


Handbook    for    Travellers, 


WITH 


THE  WESTERN  AND  NORTHERN  BORDERS,  FROM 
NEW  YORK  TO  QUEBEC. 


Nkw  l',Nr,i.\.vri  hns  hitlierto  liccn  Imt  cnsuiilly  treated  in  bookH  which  cover  wiihv 
sections  of  coniitn'  ;  siieciiil  lociilities  within  its  holders  have  hecu  de.scriheil  with 
more  or  less  iidelity  in  local  giiido-hooks ;  hut  the  present  vohiuie  is  the  first  de- 
voted to  its  treatment,  aecordiny'  to  tlie  most  approved  jirineijiles  of  Kuropean  works 
of  siniila)-  rhaiaeter.  The  llandliook  is  desi^'ned  to  enable  travellers  lo  visit  all  or 
any  of  the  notable  places  in  New  England,  with  the  greatest  possible  ocoiioiny  of 
money,  linu',   and  tenipei',   by  giving 

Lists   of  the   Hotels   with  their  Prices,  Descriptions   of  the  various 

Routes  by  Railway,  Steamer,  or  Stage,  and  Maps 

and  Plans  of  the  Principal  Cities. 

Among  the  lattei'  ari'  jdans  of  l>ost(ni,  New  York,  I'rovidence,  Xew])ort,  Hartford, 
New  Haven,  Portland,  Nh)ntrcal,  (.(nebec,  and  luajis  of  New  England,  flie  luivirons 
of  lioston,  the  AVhite  Mountains,  the  Hudson  River,  ('entral  Park,  Lake  Winnepe- 
sankee,  .Momit  Anbuin,  and  Nahant.  The  letter-press  inchides  complete  epitomes 
of  ilie  histories  of  the  old  New  England  towns,  a  statement  of  the  ])rinci]ial  scenic 
attractions,  descriptions  of  the  art  and  architectin-e  of  the  cities,  biographical  sketches 
in  connection  with  the  birthplaces  of  eminent  men.  and  statistics  of  the  chief  hi- 
dustries  of  the  included  States. 

THE  NEW  ENGLAND  HANDBOOK 

comprises  the  gi-eatest  mmd)er  of  facts  in  the  least  space,  and  gives  the  information  ; 
most  valuable  to  the  traveller.      The   famous  watcring-pl.accs  and  mountain-i'es(irts   in 
which  New  l-^ngland  abounds,   and  which  are  thronged  by  visitors  from  rdl  parts  of 
the  country  diu-ing  the  summer  months,  aie  fully  described,  and  all  desirable  infor- 
mation concerning  them  is  given  in  this  book. 


Price, 


$itS.OO. 


*,»*  For  sale  by  Booksellers.    Sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  Publishers, 

JAIflElS  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  BoMoii. 


D: 

ellers. 


S,  FROM 


wliich  fovt'i'  widiv 
■en  (lescrilicd  witli 
no  is  tliu  first  do- 
if  i'liirojiciiii  WDi-ks 
It'i's  l<i  visit  all  nr 
ossiblu   ocoiuiinv  of 

of  the  various 
Maps 

Xt'\v])i)i't,  lliirtff'vd, 
fliiiid,  file  J'liniroiis 
k,  Laki?  Wiiiiiope- 
conipletc  opitomca 
lie  ])rini;i]iid  scoiiie 
of^rnpliicnl  sketelies 
^s   of   llie  cliief   ill- 

DBOOE 


los  flic  infiiriiiation 
momitaii)-i'eK(]rfs   in 
•s  from  all   parts  of   \, 
all  desirable  infor- 


!  Publishers, 

;;;0..  BoMon. 


Mi-iimi« iifi 


TT 


ROPES   OF   SAND: 

7 

AND    OTHER    STORIES. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 


"WOVEN  OF  MANY  THREADS,"  "A  CROWN  FROM  THE  SPEAR." 


^'(^y-^.U.k    (cgo4i^ 


.4 


"Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press 
The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness ; 
Nor  prize  the  colored  waters  less, 
For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 
f{ew  light  and  strength  they  give." 

LONGFELtOW. 


EJnni.^SEM 


w 


BOSTON:    4 
JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 

(late  TICKNOR  *    FIELDS,   AND   FIELDS,   OSGOOD,  *   CO.,) 

124  Tremont  Street. 
1873. 


i 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congreu,  in  the  jrear  1873, 

By  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO., 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congreu  at  Wathington. 


I 


SUnotyftdandPrimttdiy  Rand,  Avtry,  6*  Ce, 


panrar»^.^..».n«v. 


L 


CONTENTS. 


^'^ ROPES  OF  SAND. 

I.    nuiFTED  ABHOUK 

II.    TOP'S  HAfiY " 

III.    IlLUK-EYED  VIOLET " 

,       IV.    TUK  OLD  STOKY " 

V.    LOBT » 

VI.    TIIK  niTTEU  CUP ^ 

Vll.    A  TEUUIULE  INJUSTICE 

VIII.    LEFT  TO  HIMSELF 

IX.    A  LITTLE  ANOEL •  ** 

X.    A  WITIIEUED  VIOLET *' 

XI.    ABEL'S  SACRIFICE '" 

/  n 

''    A  WOMAN'S  STOUY 

07 

K  MUS.  QOUDON'S  CONFESSION 

^ EVERY  STRING  BROKEN      

.      128 
^A  DOMESTIC  TRAGEDY 

136 

r  MR.  JOHN 

V     DRINKERS  OF  ASHES. 

1.    INTRODUCTION 

140 

a.    BYLVBRINB 


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ROPES  OF  SAND. 


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CHAPTER  I. 


DRIFTED   ABIIORE. 


Between  Ilonnsditdi  and  Fcnchiirch 
Streets  is  n  narrow,  <lin;jy  iiUcy,  known  to 
tho  iiiUiiliitftnts  of  that  jiart  of  fiomlon  as 
Black-cat  Lano.  Tho  roar  walls  of'tlio  };roat 
win^luHises  on  Fenchnrch  Street  make  a 
dismal  l)lank  of  one  side,  sliiitting  out 
every  tiling  but  a  narrow  strip  of  cky  from 
tUoso  who  grovel  in  sqiiailor  below.  A 
number  of  turablc-<lown  sheds  clin^  to  those 
wiudowlesa  walls,  like  parasites  to  llu;  stately 
trunk  of  an  oak ;  tlicir  poverty  and  decay 
formin;^  a  pitiful  ('ontriwt  to  the  massive  and 
indestructible  blocks  of  stone  a;^ainst  which 
they  I'-an.  On  the  other  side,  rows  of 
dilapidated  timemcnt-houses,  pressing;  one 
a:^ainst  tho  otlior  like  a  file  of  tipsy 
soldiers,  present  ('"'ir  forbidtlin^  fronts, 
their  broken  windows  stulled  with  rags  and 
old  hats,  or  roughly  repaired  with  strips  of 
tin,  leather,  and  oil-clotb,  to  keep  out  the 
cold  in  winter,  and  the  impure  air  in  summer. 
Dozens  of  half-nakeVl  children  wallow  like 
pigs  in  tho  drains  choked  with  all  kinds  of 
refuse,  or  play  with  the  happy  indiflerenco 
of  childhood  on  tho  broken  and  sloppy 
paving,  whore  a  ray  of  sunlight  scarce  over 
falls ;  while  haggard  and  untidy  women  hang 
about  the  doors,  smoking  and  gossipping 
with  their  ecjually  haggard  and  untidy 
neighbors.  Though  the  pure  air  and  the 
lifb-giving  sun  seldom  visit  this  squalid  sink 


of  tho  groat  city,  thnso  poor  llttlo  weeds  of 
humanity  seem  to  grow  ami  flourish  in  this 
rank  soil  more  abundantly  than  in  healthier 
localities:  they  run  and  laugh  ami  shout, 
in  tludr  blissful  i  ^norance,  as  merrily  as 
though  they  were  never  dirty,  col<l,  or  hun- 
gry ;  as  though  there  were  no  griping  want, 
no  pain,  no  sin,  no  sorrow,  among  this  strug- 
gling, suffering  community.  They  are  l)om 
and  live  and  die  in  this  foul  atuiosphono, 
never  knowing,  that  within  tho  distance  of  a 
milo  is  another  existence,  another  class  of  be- 
ings, another  world,  better  and  hap[)ier  than 
theirs.  Year  after  year,  generation  after 
generation,  these  poor  weeds  spring  into 
life,  flourish  fur  a  brief  day,  fado  and  die, 
and  are  plucked  up  by  the  hand  of  (lod  to 
leave  room  for  another  growth.  The  most 
of  them  are  poor,  deserted  waifs,  who  never 
know  to  whom  they  owe  their  existence. 
Chiinco  adixes  some  namo  to  them  by  which 
they  are  called  during  their  lives  :  when 
they  die,  it  dies  with  them,  and  they  are 
remembered  no  more  on  earth. 

One  dreary  night  in  November,  how 
many  years  ago  it  matters  not,  an  old  man 
sat  alone  before  his  little  firo  in  tho  cellar 
of  one  of  tho  most  respectable  of  these  ten- 
ements, diligently  repairing  a  much-worn 
waistcojvt  by  the  feeble  light  of  a  tin  lamp 
that  hung  from  a  hook  in  the  smoky  jamb 
of  the  firepliico.  He  was  a  most  singular 
little  figure,  being  scarce  five  feet  tall,  while 
his  head  was  unusually  large,  and  covered 


SkafeSSsS 


smuMimian^SS 


I. 


6 


B0PE8  OF  SAND. 


with  coarse,  thick  hair  as  white  ns  snow  ; 
his  eyes,  very  small  and  close  toj^etlier, 
peered  out  from  under  a  pair  of  shaggy 
brows  with  an  expression  of  uiiuglcd  cun- 
ning and  good  nature  ;  ills  face,  destitute  of 
beard  save  a  iew  straggling  hairs  under  liis 
chin,  was  covered  with  fine,  deep  lines  tliat 
crossed  eacli  otlier  at  every  angle,  making 
his  skin  appear  like  closely  (juilted  parcli- 
ment.  Althougli  his  clothes  denoted  ex- 
treme poverty,  tliey  were  scrupulously  clean, 
and  liad  been  patched  and  repatched  with 
the  utmost  care,  showing  as  many  colors  as 
did  Joseph's  coat.  Every  thing  in  the  mis- 
erable room  was  pitifully  poor,  yet  as  neat 
and  orderly  as  tliough  some  tlirifty  liouse- 
wife  had  just  finislied  her  day's  cleaning. 
The  tin  lamp,  that  tlirew  its  dickering  blaze 
over  his  bent  liead  and  large  rough  liands. 
shone  like  jjolished  silver;  the  deal  table 
and  broken  Uoor  were  scoured  to  a  remark- 
able whiteness;  and  the  miserable  bed 
against  the  wall  was  neatly  made,  and  cov- 
ered witli  a  much-worn  but  clean  coverlet. 
There  was  notliiug  in  tlie  room  but  tlic 
table,  bed,  and  three-legged  stool  on  wliicli 
he  sat,  besides  a  little  common  crockery  on 
a  shelf,  some  tin  measures  scoured  to  the 
same  briglitness  as  llie  lamp,  a  few  pails  and 
baskets,  and  in  one  corner  a  lieap  of  clean 
white  sand. 

The  fire  blazed  cheerily,  the  flame  of 
the  lamp  flickered  over  the  little  old  man, 
who  stitclied  away  industriously,  his  feet 
on  the  high  fender,  and  his  nose  al- 
most touching  his  knees.  From  time  to 
time  lie  straightened  himself,  pushed  up  his 
spectai;les,  and  very  delibeiately  took  a 
large  brass  pin  from  tlie  lining  of  his  jacket, 
with  wliich  he  knocked  off"  the  black  cap 
that  h:id  gathered  on  the  wick,  and  jiicked 
it  up  to  a  brighter  blaze ;  then  he  wvped  the 
pin  carefully  on  a  bunch  of  wool  that  hung 
under  the  lamp,  quilted  it  again  into  las 
jacket,  and  returned  to  his  work  as  though 
there  had  been  no  interruption.  At  last, 
when  the  blue  patch  was  placed  upon  tlie 
brown  garment  to  his  entire  satisfaction,  he 
helil  it  up  admiringly,  and  said  to  himself 
in  a  cheery,  chirping  voice,  "  It's  good,  as 


good  as  new;  an'  I  only  paid  a  shillin'  for 
it.     It  was  so  dirty  when  I  bought  it,  that  I 
thouglit  it  was  black :  now  I've  washed  it, 
it's  a  fine  brown ;  an'  this  bit  o'  blue  cloth 
covers  the  holes  uncommon  well.     It's  a'  ex- 
cellent thing  that  you're  handy  with  your 
needle.  Top,  so  ;  hat  you  can  go  well  dressed, 
while  your  neighbors  are  in  rags."     Then 
he  smootlied  it  out  over  his  knees,  clipped 
oir  some  little  frayed  threads  around    the 
edges,  and  tblded  it  carefully,  patting   it 
with  a  loving  hand,  while  he  smiled  fondly 
as  tiiough  it  were  a  living  thing  he  caressed  ; 
after  which  he  stood  up,  straightened  hun- 
self  out  of  his  cramped  position,  and  held 
it  at  arms'  length,  looking  at  it  once  more 
approvingly  before  ho  laid  it  on  a  shelf  over 
the  fire[)lace,  and  covered  it  with  a  paper 
to  protect  it  from  the  dust.     "  Now,  Toj), 
make  vour  tea,"  he  continued,  addressing 
himself  in  tlie  same  cheerful  tone  ;  for,  hav- 
ing been  alone  all  his  life,  lie  made  a  com- 
[janion  of  himself  by  fancying  that  he  was 
another  person,  and,  under  this  hapi>y  delu- 
sion, he  carried  on  long  dialogues,  person- 
ating two  voices,  so  that  any  one  listening 
would  certainly  have  said  that  another  be- 
sides himself  was  talking  in  the  little  cellar. 
'•  Where's  the  tea  ?  "  he  questioned,  bustling 
around,  and  setting  a  bright  kettle  on  the 
hob.    "  Why,  there's  a  pen'orth  o'  the  best 
(piality  in  a  paper  bag  in  the  table  drawer. 
Top,  you're  stupid  to-night."  — "Yes:  I'm 
stupiil,  'cause  I'm  tired.     It's  hard  work  to 
lug  sand  all  day  in  two  pails,  an'  stop  here 
an'  there,  at  everybody's  call,  to  measure 
out  a  ha'peu'orth ;  besides,  I've  sanded  the 
Uoor  o'   the   Blue   Dragon.     It's  the  first 
lime  in  my  life  that  ever  I  was  asked  to 
sand  the  floor  o'   the  Blue  Dragon.     I've 
supplied  that  inn  with  sand  for  more  'an 
filty  years,  every  day,  an<l  al'ays  left  my 
measure  at  the  door  o'  the  bar-room  with- 
out  bein'  asked  to  sift  it  over  the  floor." 
"  Who  told  you  to  do  it  to-day.  Top  ?  "  — 
"  Why,  the  new  bar-maid.    Says  she,  as  pert 
as  couhl  be,  'Mr.  Top,  just  take  that  sifter 
an'  give  it  a  fling  'round :  your  arms  is  longer 
an'  stronger  'an  mine,  an'  you  ain't  'alf  as 
much  to  do  as  I  'ave.'    Well,  I  did  it; 


will  a  shillin'  for 
I  bought  it,  that  I 
w  I'vu  washed  it, 

bit  o'  blue  oloth 
u  wfll.  It's  a' ex- 
handy  with  your 
in  '^o  well  dressed, 

in  raj;s."  Then 
lis  knees,  clipped 
eads  around  the 
efully,  patting  it 
!  he  smiled  fondly 
hing  ho  caressed ; 
straigiitened  hliu- 
josition,  and  held 
;  at  it  once  more 

it  on  a  shelf  over 
J  it  with  a  paper 
ust.  "  Now,  Top, 
inucd,  addressing 
ful  tone  ;  for,  hav- 
,  ho  made  a  com- 
ity ing  that  he  was 
r  this  happy  delu- 
dialogues,  person- 
ally one  listening 
I  that  another  lie- 
in  the  little  cellar, 
ucstioned,  bustling 
ight  kettle  on  the 
an'orth  o'  the  best 

the  table  drawer. 
;ht."_"Yes:  Tin 

It's  hard  work  to 
tails,  an'  stop  here 
j  call,  to  measure 
iS,  I've  sanded  the 
on.  It's  the  first 
!r  I  was  asked  to 
lue  Dragon.  I've 
sand  for  more  'an 
nd  al'ays  left  my 
he  bar-room  with- 
it  over  the  floor." 

to-day.  Top?"  — 
.  Says  she,  as  pert 
ist  take  that  sifter 
your  arms  is  longer 
i'  you  ain't  'alf  as 
Well,  I  did  it; 


DUIFTED  ASHORE. 


though  mighty  unwillin',  an'  all  the  while 
she  asked  me  (piestions  as   sa'cy  as   any 
wench   you  over  see.     Says   she,  'Wiiat's 
your  name  'sides  Top  ?  '     Says  1,  '  I've  got 
no  other  name  that  I  knows  of.'    '  Well," 
gays  she.  'how  did  you  .get  that?  did  your 
daddy  an'  your  mammy  give  it  to  you  ?  ' 
Says  I,  '  I  never  had  any  daddy  an'  mammy 
as  I  can  remember.     A'  old  woman  as  lives 
in  the  next  collar,  told  me,  that  when  I  was 
a  wee  thing,  a  toddlin'  'round,  some  one  said, 
'  He's  no  bigger  'an  a  top ; '  an'  so  they  al'ays 
called  me  Little  Top;  now  they  call  me  Old 
Top.'    Then  she  laughs,  an'  says,  'It's  a 
good  name  for  you  ;  an'  I'll  make  you  spin 
'round,  an'  sand  the  floor  for  me  every  day.' 
Don't  you  call  that  too  bad?     Here  I've 
lived  more  'an  sixty  years,  an'  never  been 
out  o'  sound  o'  Bow  Hells,  never  left  off  one 
day  carryin'  sand  with  not  a  pebble  nor 
stick  in  it,  an'  al'ays  heaped  the  measure 
at  the  Blue  Dragon  extra  high  in  the  mid- 
dle ;  now  I  say  it's  too  bad,  at  my  time  o' 
life,  to  be  drove  by  that  sa'cy  new  bar-maid 
to  sift,  it  over  the  floor.     Don't  you  say  it's 
too  bad?"  — '*  Yes,  I  do:  I  wouldn't  doit, 
Top,  I  wouldn't  do  it."—"  But  if  I  refuse  I'll 
lose  their  custom,  an'  there's  a  penny  ha'- 
penny a  day  gone.   Hark !  what's  that  ?  Did 
some    one    knock  ?"  —  "  Yes :    some    one 
knocked ;  "  and,  as  he  answered  himself,  he 
replaced  the  hissing  kettle  on  the  hob,  from 
whence  he  had  taken  it,  and  turned  toward 
the  rickety  door,  which  was  fastened  with 
two  stout  boards,  propped  slanting,  and  se- 
cured by  iron  spikes  driven  into  the  floor. 
"  Who's  there  ?  "  he  shouted,  hollowing  his 
hands  behind  each  ear,  the  better  to  hear  the 
'  answer.     But  there  was  no  answer,  only  a 
slight  rustling  and  sobbing  which  sounded 
like  the  wind  driving  the  black  fog  before 
it.     "I  don't  believe  it's  any  one  at  all. 
Do  you.  Top?  "  —  " No,  I  don't."  —  "  It's  a 
nasty  gusty  night  as  makes  one's  bones  creep 
in  his  body,  an'  the  door  rattles  itself,  or  may 
be  it's  a  dog,  or  a  child,  or  a  —  woman  an' 
a  babby,"  he  added,  with  sudden  animation, 
as  a  fiiint  wail  fell  on  his  ear,  mingled  with 
a  pitiful,  broken  voice  that  entreated,"  Let 
me  in  1  let  me  in,  for  the  love  of  God  1 " 


"  She's  not  the  first  poor  crctur'  you've 
sheltered  from  the  wind  and  rain ;  is  she. 
Top?"  he  ((uestioned  as  he  removed  the 
boards  briskly,  and  threw  o])en  the  creaking 
door,  before  which  stood  the  figure  of  a  wo- 
man,in  strong  relief  against  the  darkness  ami 
dense  vapors  of  the  November  night.  She 
looked  more  like  a  corjise  than  a  living 
thing,  with  her  shrunk,  hol.ow  face,  long, 
dank  hair,  and  naked,  skeleton  arms,  from 
which  the  tatters  of  a  shawl  had  fallen, 
revealing  a  babe  a  few  w(^e)--s'  old  pressed 
convulsively  to  her  breast. 

"  Lord  love  you  !  how  dreadful  you  ilo 
look  !  But  Top  ain't  afraid  of  you  ;  are  you. 
Top?  Get  in  out  o'  the  wind  an'  rain  ;  an' 
don't  stand  there,  starin'  like  a  spirit  come 
to  give  a  man  his  warnin'." 

The  miserable  creature  said  nothing,  but 
tottered  over  the  threshold,  looking  around 
with  a  bewildered  stare,  while  Top  secured 
the  door  carefully.  Iler  great  hollow  eyes 
rested  on  the  fire  for  a  moment,  and  then 
wandered  about  the  room  as  though  seeking 
for  some  place  of  rest.  Suddenly  utteriii'^ 
a  sharji  cry,  she  staggered  forward,  and  fell 
in  a  heap  on  the  pile  of  sand,  clutching  it 
with  her  hands,  while  she  gasped  in  broken 
tones,  "  Sand  I  dry,  warm  sand  1  Ah,  what 
a  welcome  bed  for  me  !  " 

"  She  needn't  fall  down  there  all  in  a 
heap,  need  she,  when  there's  my  bed  ? " 
said  Top,  drawing  near  her,  and  looking  at 
her  pitifully.  "  Come,  come,  mistress,  raise 
up,  an'  give  me  the  babby ;  give  old  Top  the 
little  one ;  he'll  warm  it,  an'  feed  it  with 
some  good  milk,  while  you  take  a  nice 
strong  cup  o'  tea  that'll  set  you  up  in  a 
minit.  There's  nothin'  like  a  cup  o'  tea  to 
chirk  a  body  up  when  they're  weak  like,  an' 
down  t'the  heel.  It's  all  hot.  It's  just 
ready.  Give  us  your  hand,  mistress,  and 
I'll  help  you  up." 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  sobbed  out  with  passionate 
tears  drenching  her  haggard  cheeks.  "  No  : 
let  me  be  here.  It's  better  'an  London  mud. 
I  don't  want  no  tea  ;  I  don't  want  nothin' 
now  only  to  lay  still  on  this  sand  an'  die." 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense,  mistress  !  the  like 
o'  you  don't  die  so  easy;   do  they.  Top? 


8 


ROPES  OF   SAND. 


•Sides,  that  sand-heap's  no  place  to  die  on, 
when  there's  a  bed  which  is  fitter  for  a 
human  bciii*." 

"  It's  a  good  enough  bed  for  me.  It's  a 
better  than  I've  had  i'or  many  a  day.  Tlie 
smell  o'  tlic  sand  docs  me  good.  When  1 
was  a'  innocent  child  I  played  in  the  sand 
away  olf  on  the  downs.  I  made  palaces, 
an'  gardens,  an'  caves,  an'  mountains  of  it; 
an'  all  the  while  I  heard  the  sea  roarin'  an' 
breakin'  on  tiie  shore  miles  an'  miles  below. 
I  hear  it  now  t  "  she  cried,  starting  up  wild- 
ly, "  [  hear  it  now  1  an'  there's  father's  boat 
a  comiu'  in  on  tlie  top  o'  that  big  wave." 

"  Wliat's  she  talkin'  of,  Top  V  Does  she 
know  what  she  says  ?  I  tell  you,  mistress, 
there's  no  sea  here,  nor  no  downs,  nor  no 
waves,  nor  no  boat.  You're  in  Black-cat 
Lane,  huddled  up  on  a  heap  o'  sand  in  old 
Top's  cellar.  Come,  cheer  up  a  bit  1  take  a 
drop  o'  tea,  an'  you'll  know  where  jou  arc 
d'rectly,"  said  the  old  man  encouragingly, 
forgetting  for  a  moment  to  address  his  other 
self,  now  that  he  had  an  actual  body  to  talk 
to,  while  he  bent  over  her,  and  tried  to  raise 
her  head,  with  its  tangled  mass  of  hair,  from 
the  clinging  sand. 

"  It's  no  use.  I  can't  move,  an'  I  won't 
move  1  Leave  me  here :  I  want  to  die  here !  " 
she  cried,  obstinately  repulsing  Top  with 
what  little  strength  remained  to  her. 

With  a  puzzled,  worried  expression,  the 
ohl  man  let  the  heavy  head  settle  back  again 
on  its  shifting  pillow,  while  he  shook  the 
sand  from  the  long  hair  that  hung  over  his 
arm.  He  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
this  evidently  starving  creature,  wlio  refused 
food  and  drink ;  so  he  only  knelt  by  her, 
looking  at  her  stupidly,  while  she  muttered 
incoherent  sentences  of  which  he  occasion- 
ally caught  the  words,  "  Downs,  boats,  and 
sea."  At  last  the  poor  baby  struggled  in  its 
mother's  close  embrace,  and  cried  feebly. 
Top  attempted  to  take  it;  but  she  only 
clasped  it  more  tightly,  and  glared  at  him  so 
wildly,  that,  half  afraid,  he  retreated  to  the 
other  side  of  tlie  room.  "  What  will  you 
do,  Top  ?  what  will  you  do  with  this  cretur' 
and  her  babby  ?  "  ne  (piestioned,  scratching 
his  head  violently  with  a  comical  e.xpression 


of  bewilderment  on  his  broad  face.    "  You're 
not  the  man  to  turn  her  out  o'  door,  are 
you  V     No  :  I'm  not  the  man  to  turn  her  out 
o*  door,  nor  to  let  her  die  on  a  heap  o'  sand 
neither ;  but  she  won't  move,  nor  won't  let 
me  give  the  poor  starvin'  mite  nothin' ;  an'  I 
b'lieve  they'll  both  die,  if  they  don't  have  a 
snitl  o'  somethin'."     Then  a  sudden  inspi- 
ration seemed  to  take  possession  of  his  puz- 
zled brain  ;  i'or  he  turned  nimbly  toward  tlie 
fire,  and,  taking  a  little  sauce-pan  i'rom  a 
shelf,  he  poured  some  milk  into  it  which 
he    warmed,   and  then  sweetened.    When 
it  was  prepared  to  his  taste,  he  crept  softly 
toward  the  woman,  knelt  down  by  her  side, 
and  with  a  small,  wooden  spoon  put  some 
of  the  sweet,  warm  milk  to  the  lips  of  the 
baby.      The   little  creature   swallowed   it 
eagerly,  all  the  time  struggling  to  free  Itself 
from  its  mother's  close  embrace  1  but   the 
wretched  woman  only  clasped  it  closer,  mut- 
tering her    broken    sentences,   while    she 
gazed  into  vacancy  with  fixed,  glassy  eyes. 
When  the  child  had  satisfied   its   hunger, 
Top  tried  the  same   experiment  with   the 
mother ;  but  she  set  her  teeth  firmly,  and 
refused  to  swallow  a  drop, 

"  It's  no  use,"  he  said  grimly  ;  "  the  ere- 
tur's  determined  to  starve  herself;  an'  I 
can't  help  it.  So  I'll  jest  let  her  have  her 
way,  as  is  mostly  best  with  wiinmin ;  an'  I 
shouldn't  wonder,  when  she  rests  a  bit,  if 
she'd  come  to  her  appetite."  With  this 
conclusion  he  took  the  coverlet  from  his 
bed,  and  spread  it  gently  over  the  mother 
and  child.  Then  he  stood  with  liis  hands 
ou  his  hips,  watching  both  with  an  expres- 
sion of  mingled  pity  and  curiosity,  until  the 
baby  slept,  and  the  woman  fell  into  a  heavy 
stupor, 

"  They'll  wake  up  all  right ;  don't  you 
think  they  will.  Top  ?  "  he  muttered  softly, 
as  he  crept  back  to  his  scat  on  the  three- 
legged  stool.  The  lamp  burned  dimly  :  he 
picked  up  the  wick,  knocked  off  the  black 
cap  dexterously,  and  stirred  the  fire  to  a 
bright  blaze.  Tlien  he  poured -out  a  mug 
of  tea ;  and,  taking  a  penny  roll  and  a  scrap 
of  cheese  from  the  drawer  of  the  table,  he 
munched  them  with  evident  relish,  sipping 


I 


-XiiWu'j  'iiriiTihfrtr-   ■-■■'■-' 


sad  face.  "You're 
r  out  o'  door,  arc 
iian  to  turn  her  out 

on  a  heap  o*  sand 
lOve,  nor  won't  let 
mite  nothin' ;  an'  I 
[■  they  don't  have  a 
n  a  sudden  inspi- 
jsession  of  his  puz- 
ninibly  toward  tlie 

pauee-pan  i'roni  a 
nilk  into  it  wliich 
sweetened.  When 
ate,  lie  ercpt  softly 
t  down  by  her  side, 
n  spoon  put  sonic 

to  the  lips  of  the 
ture  swallowed  it 
ggling  to  free  Itself 

embrace  1  but  the  , 
isped  it  closer,  niut- 
itences,  while  she 
,  fixed,  glassy  eyes, 
tisfled  its  hunger, 
periment  with  the 
r  teeth  firmly,  and 
'p. 

grimly  ;  "  the  cre- 
\rve  herself;  an'  I 
!st  let  her  have  her 
■ith  wiinmin ;  an'  I 

she  rests  a  bit,  if 
)etite."  With  this 
;  coverlet  from  his 
ly  over  the  mother 
X)d  with  ]iis  hands 
jth  with  an  expres- 
1  curiosity,  until  the 
an  fell  into  a  heavy 

1  right ;  don't  you 
he  muttered  softly, 
seat  on  the  thrce- 
)  burned  dimly  :  he 
)cked  off  the  black 
;irred  the  fire  to  a 
poured -out  a  mug 
nny  roll  and  a  scrap 
vcr  of  the  table,  he 
ident  relish,  sipping 


DRIFTED  ASHORE. 


9 


now  and  then,  from  the  mug,  as  he  glanceil 
over  his  shoulder  at  the  (juiet  heap  on  the 
sanil.  After  he  had  finished  his  humble 
meal,  he  moved  about  softly,  making  every 
thing  tidy,  with  the  neatness  and  skill  of  a 
woman.  When  the  troublesome  lamp  was 
trimmed  again,  the  fire  stirred  up,  and  the 
broken  hearth  swept,  he  took  a  pair  of 
coarse  stockings  from  the  table  drawer  which 
seemed  to  contain  all  his  worldly  goods, 
dove  his  hands  into  the  capacious  pockets 
of  his  patched  trousers,  and  fished  out  a 
ball  of  blue  yarn,  then  a  needle-case  made 
of  the  leg-bone  of  a  goose,  and  dosed  with 
a  small  wooden  plug.  From  this  he 
selected  a  large  darning-needle,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  darn  his  well-worn  stockings, 
while  he  carried  on  his  usual  dialogue  in  a 
half-whisper,  glancing  from  time  to  time  at 
the  sleepers  on  the  sand. 

Just  as  Top  was  in  the  miilst  of  a  very 
animated  discussion  with  himself  in  regard 
to  the  history  of  the  miserable  woman 
whom  he  thought  to  be  sleeping  peace- 
fully, she  started  up  wildly,  and  cried  out 
in  ringing  tones,  — 

"  I  see  father's  boat  a  comin' ;  the  sails  is 
white  in  the  sunlight,  an'  the  sea  is  blue 
like  the  sky  ;  an'  he's  standin'  on  the  bow, 
a  holdin'  out  his  hands,  an'  he  looks  at  me 
kind  and  pitiful.  lie  was  a  good  man 
—  do  3011  hear?  —  he  was  a  good  man; 
an'  he  told  me  that  my  evil  ways  would 
Iciid  to  ruin.  He  said  that  I  was  twistin' 
ropes  o'  sand,  that  would  break,  an'  leave 
me  a  wreck  on  the  shore.  An'  he  was 
right ;  for  he  was  a  good  man.  His  name 
was  Abel  Winter.  I've  named  my  baby  for 
him  :  perhaps  the  name  may  save  him  from 
sin  anil  sorrow.  Poor  little  thing !  I've 
never  loved  him  till  now,  when  I  can't  hold 
him  no  longer.  1  hope  the  world'll  be  bet- 
ter to  him  than  it's  been  to  me.  Somc- 
thin's  gnawed   at   my  heart  ibr  many  a 


laid  her  face  on  the  shifting  sands  that 
still  smelt  of  the  salt  sea  and  the  sunny 
downs. 

After  that  she  was  silent ;  and  old  Top, 
who  had  turned  on  his  stool,  pushed  up  his 
spectacles,  and  wiped  away  a  tear  with  the 
toe  of  the  stocking  that  he  held  on  his 
hand,  saying,  "  Poor  cretur',  she's  dreamin', 
an'  talkin'  in  her  sleep." 

AVhcn  Bow  IJelis  sounded  the  hour  of 
nine,  the  old  man  always  covered  his  dying 
fire,  ])Ut  out  his  little  lamp,  and  crept  to  his 
bed  ;  lait  to-night  what  could  he  doV  The 
wretched  woman  still  slept,  and  showed  no 
signs  of  waking.  At  last,  overcome  by 
weariness,  and  before  lie  was  aware  of  it, 
his  head  sank  upon  his  breast,  and  he  slum- 
bered peacefully,  sitting  upon  his  three- 
legged  stool.  When  he  awoke,  his  fire  was 
nearly  out,  and  his  lamp  burned  very 
dimly. 

'•  Why,  Top,   you   almost   lost   yourself, 
didn't  you?  "he  said,  stretching  and  blink- 
ing like  a  toad  suddenly  exposed  to  sun- 
light.    "  It  must  be  late,  awful  late ;  an'  you 
mi'iht  as  well  go  to  bed,  an'  sleep  like  U 
Christian,  as  to  sit  here  all   cramped,   up, 
watehin'  that  poor  cretur'  that's  sound  as  a 
roach,   an'   won't   talk   any   more   in   her 
dreams."    So,  with  the  intention  of  retiring 
lor  the  night,  he  covered  the  few  embers 
carefully,  pulled  off  his  heavy  shoes,  and 
drew  a  red  night-cap  over  his  ears.     Then, 
before   extinguishing   the   light,   he   crept 
softly  toward  the  sand-heap  to  see  if  all  was 
well  with  the  sleepers ;  but  the  child  was 
wide  awake.     Its  great  dark   eyes   shone 
like  stars  out  of  the  heavy  shadow  of  the 
mother's  hair:    its  lips  were  parted   in    a 
warm  smile  ;  and,  with  one  little  finger,  it 
followed  the  track  of  a  tear  that  rolled  like 
a  pearl  down   the  pale  cheek  of  the  wo- 
man. 

"  (}od  bh'SR  the  little  angel  1  "  said  Top, 


month.     It's  been  more  'an  I  could  bear ;  1  ben<ling    lower    to    smile    on    the    child. 


an'  it's  never  been  easy,  day  nor  night: 
but  now  it  seems  to  die  away ;  an'  I 
b'lievc  I'm  cured,  'cause  father's  comin' 
for    me."      Then    she    sank     back,    and 


Something  in  the  mother's  face  startled 
him  ;  and  he  took  up  one  hand  that  lay 
loosely  enough  now  over  the  baby's  neck. 
It  was  cold  and  rigid.     She  was  dead  I 


-ma 


^«feifc<»!awafeit'fe'ti^'^^" 


10 


ROPES  OF  SAND. 


CHAPTER  II. 


top's  haby. 


The  next  niorninji,  when  the  parish 
umlortakiT,  with  liis  assistant,  came  to  take 
away  the  body  of  tlio  unknown  woman,  they 
foiuiil  To])  sitiinjr  hclore  tlic  firii  with  his 
fci't  on  the  fender,  and  the  l)ahy,  wrapi)ed 
in  one  of'iiis  clean,  well-patehed  waisteoats, 
lyin','  aiiosshis  knees,  cooing  and  hur^hinji, 
all  unconscious  that  its  mother  lay  dead 
upon  the  lied,  with  her  hands  folded  peaee- 
i'uily.  and  the  penitential  tears  wiped  away 
I'loui  lier  eyes  Ibrever. 

"  What  you  ^'oin'  to  do  with  the  child  ?  " 
questioned  the  undertaker,  who  stood  look- 
ini;  with  stony  indiU'erenee  upon  the  "ghast- 
ly face  of  the  mother. 

'•  Whv,  keep  it,  to  be  sure.  You're  poin' 
to  keep  it;  ain't  you.  To])?"  he  said  with 
decision,  as  he  ])ressed  it,  close  to  liis  heart. 
"  It's  a  little  an:j;el,  a  blessed  little  an;iel ; 
ai\'  I  wou'dn't  send  it  away  ibr  the  whole 
world!" 

"  IJut  what  can  you  do  with  it  ?  A 
youn'^  one  o'  that  ape  needs  a  deal  o'  care : 
an'  vou've  no  woman  about,  hiive  you  ?  " 

'•i  don't  need  no  woman  to  take  care  of  it : 
I'm  woman  enoui;h  myself  1  can  wash  an' 
mend  an'  cook,  an'  that's  all  a  mistress  does ; 
an'  sonie  of  'em  don't  do  that.  Now,  mind 
yon,  Mr.  Undertaker,  give  her  a  kind  o' de- 
cent burial ;  an'  I'll  look  out  for  the  child, 
and  brin^  it  u|)  like  a  Christian." 

'•  Know  the  i>ariy  V  "  asked  the  assistant, 
twirling  tlie  screws  out  of  the  cover  of  tlie 
pine-bo.\  that  they  had   placed  near  the 

bed. 

'^  No,"  replied  Top  laconically:  "never 
saw  her  tilLshe  came  here  to  die." 

"  Drunk,  wasn't  sh')  V  "  questioned  the 
undertaker. 

"  No,"  returned  Top  indignantly,  "  no 
more  chunk  an'  you  are  this  blessed  minif, 
but  all  worn  out.  like  a'  old  jrarnient,  that 
can't  hold  itself  together.  The  doctorsaid  she 
died  o'  weaknc'ss  an'  starvation  :  but  Lord 
knows  she  needn't;  for  I  tried  hard  enough 
to  have  her  eat,  an'  she  wouldn't  swallow  a 


mouthftd.  It's  my  'pinion  as  how  slie  was 
kind  o'  tired  like  o'  livin',  an'  didn't  want 
to  have  the  life  ke[)t  in  her." 

"  Likely  ;  tliey  often  do  get  tired,  that 
sort ;  an'  I  'magine  she  was  a  precious  bad 
lot.  Didn't  tell  you  lier  name  nor  nothin'  V  " 
continued  the  undertaker,  as  he  lilted  the 
heavy  head  with  its  mass  of  black  hair. 
"  Young,  shoiddn't  you  say  ?  Not  a  day 
over  twenty.  Lord  1  what  tools  these  cre- 
tur's  arc    to   throw  theirselves    away  like 

that  I  " 

Top  covered  the  baby's  face,  and  turned 
his  l)ack,  while  they  laid  the  hapless  woman 
in  her  rndo  coffin,  and  carried  her  away  as 
indiiferently  as  though  their  burden  were 
b<it  a  dumb  animal,  instead  of  a  humf\ 
being  who  had  sinned,  and  suffered,  and 
i  died  with  a  tear  of  penitence  on  her 
I  clieek. 

After  they  had  gone  with  their  8a<i  bur- 
den. To])  laid  the  child  gently  upon   the 
pile  of  sand,  while  he  arranged   the  bed 
liom  which  tliey  ha<l  removed  the  body  of 
the  mother.     He  shook  up  the  straw  pallet 
to  a  -sofl  bundle,  spread  out  the   coverlet 
so  that  there  was  no  crease  nor  wrinkle, 
and  then  lifted  the  baby  on  the  palms  of 
his  hands  as  carefully  as  though  it  were  the 
most  delicate  spun  glass,  and  deposited  it 
with  a  sigh  of  happiness  in  the  middle  of 
the  bed,  saying,  with  a  lively  chirp,  "  There, 
there,  chickey  !    ain't  that  nice  an'   soft? 
It's  Top's  bed,  where  he  sleeps  every  night. 
It's  clean  enough  for  a  king ;  an'  you  sha'n't 
sleep  no  more  on  mud  nor  sand,  but  on 
sweet,  tiesh  straw,  with  a  good  warm  rug 
over  you." 

The  child   looked  at  him   intelligently, 
with  gniat,  serious  eyes,  and    cooed   and 
nestled,  as  though  it  were  thoroughly  con- 
tented, and  iuUy  appreciated  the  comforta- 
ble condition  into  which  it  had  so  suddenly 
fallen.     Then   he  bustled   about,   opening 
the  drawer,  and  searching  for  something, 
with  an  anxious  exinvssion  on  his  comical 
old  face.    "1  thought  I  had  a   little   bit 
somewhere.     Top,  don't  you  remember  you 
washed  it  the  other  day,  and  put  it  away  to 
mend  your  shirt  with  ?     Ah  I  here  it  is," 


' 


TOP'S  BABY. 


11 


as  how  she  was 
an'  didn't  want 
r." 

0  get  tired,  that 
IS  a  pre<'iims  had 
me  nor  notliin'  V  " 

as  he  hi'ti'd  the 
a  of  hlacli  hair. 
!ay?  Not  a  day 
,t  fools  these  cre- 
selves    away  like 

1  face,  and  turned 
he  hapless  woman 
rried  lier  away  as 
heir  hurden  were 
toad  of  a  humiT 
and  suiFered,  and 
leniteiice    on    her 

rith  their  8a<i  hur- 
gently  tipon    the 
arranged   the  bed 
noved  the  body  of 
lip  the  straw  pallet 
1  out  the   coverlet 
rease  nor  wrinkle, 
y  on  the  palms  of 
!thou;4i  it  were  the 
s,  and  deposited  it 
s  in  the  middle  of 
vely  chirp, "  There, 
hat  nice  an'   soft? 
!  sleeps  every  nif^ht. 
;in!i ;  an'  you  sha'n't 
1  nor  sand,  but  on 
a  good  warm  rug 

;  him  intelligently, 
us,  and    cooed   and 
ere  thoroughly  con- 
ciated  the  comforta- 
■h  it  had  so  suddenly 
tied   about,   opening 
hing  for  something, 
ssion  on  his  comical 
;  I  had  a   little   bit 
I't  you  remember  you 
ly,  and  put  it  away  to 
?     Ah  I  hero  it  is," 


and  ho  drew  out  from  the  bottom  of  the 
drawer  a  small  piece  of  old  linen,  from 
which  he  cut  a  scrap  carefully  ;  then  he  jiro- 
ceeded  to  put  a  spoonCid  of  rather  samly 
sugar  in  the  centre  of  it ;  after  which  he 
gathered  it  up  into  a  little  hall,  and  tied  a 
thread  tightly  around  it.  "  There's  a 
sugar-teat  for  you,"  he  said  with  great  sat- 
isfaction, as  he  introduced  it  into  the  rosy 
mouth  of  the  child,  who  tugged  at  it  vigor- 
ously. 

Top  stood  watching  this  process  of  nour- 
ishment, perfectly  enchanted,  his  hands  on 
his  hips,  and  his  whole  little  hoily  convulsed 
with  a  chuckle  of  delight,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  an  old  woman  entered  uncere- 
moniously. So  absorbed  was  he,  that  he 
did  not  hear  her  until  she  slapped  him 
smartly  on  the  shoulder,  and  shouted  in  a 
shrill  voice, —  for  she  was  deaf,  an<l  so 
thought  every  one  else  was,  —  "  Top,  Top, 
what  'ave  you  got  there  ?  " 

The  old  man  started,  and  looked  around 
crossly,  then  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  when 
he  saw  who  it  was.  "  Ila !  ha !  It's  you,  is 
it.  Mother  Birch  ?  so  you've  come  to  see 
Top's  baby.  Well,  now  look  1  ain't  it  a 
beauty  V " 

"  That  it  is,"  piped  the  old  woman ;  "  but 
Where's  the  poor  cretur'  ?  Have  they  took 
her  away  a'ready  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Top  :  "  she's  gone  to  her 
long  home ;  an'  it's  the  best  place  for 
one  o'  them  poor,  sinniu',  sufferiu'  sonls. 
But,  thank  God  !  Top's  got  the  baby  safe  :  an' 
you  mean  to  keep  it ;  don't  you.  Top?  " 

"  You  mean  to  keep  it  1  "  cried  the  oLl 
woman  in  surprise.  "  Why,  good  Lord  ! 
man,  you  must  be  crazy.  You  don't  know 
what  a  trouble  it'll  be." 

"  A  trouble  !  not  a  bit  of  a  trouble,  if  I  can 
only  get  bread  an'  milk  for  it,"  replied 
Top  wiih  a  eunningglance  at  his  visitor. 

"  Perhaps  you'll  find  that  harder  'an 
you  think  ;  for  these  little  cretur's  do  eat  a 
deal." 

"  Well,  then,  I'H  go  without  my  own  crust 
for  it,  if  there's  need.  But,  stars  o'  light ! 
Mother  Birch,  there's  nine  o'clock  struck, 
an'  I  ain't  been  out  with  my  sand ;  au'  I  can't 


leave  this  little  thing  alone,  can  T,  now?" 
said  Top,  looking  at  the  baby  tbndly,  but 
with  a  jiuzzli'd  anil  anxious  expression  on 
his  poor  old  face.  "  'Sides,  it's  got  to  have  a 
frock,  an'  sonu'thin'  to  be  comfortable  in. 
I've  saved  a  few  shillin's,  I  have;  an'  I'll 
go  to  the  Jews  in  Iloundsdilch,  an'  hunt 
uj)  some  little  duds,  if  you'll  stay  an'  watch 
it  while  I'm  gone." 

"  Oh  I  I'll  do  that  for  once  in  a  way,"  jiiped 
the  old  womiui ;  "  but  you  know  I've  got  my 
own  livin'  to  earn  ;  an'  I  can't  give  my  time 
to  you  an'  your  baby  tor  long.  There's  a 
great  heaj)  o'  rags  a  waitin'  to  be  picked 
over  ni>w." 

Top  scratched  his  head  reflectively  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  looked  up  brightly 
as  a  happy  idea  struck  him.  "I'll  tell  you 
what  I'll  do,  Mother  Birch  ;  I've  saved  a  lew 
shillin's,  I  have  ;  an'  I'll  give  you  one  an' 
sixpence  a  week,  if  you'll  stay  here  an' 
minil  the  baby  when  I'm  out,  which  isn't  all 
day,  yon  know  ;  an'  you  can  bring  your  rags 
here  to  sort,  an'  won't  make  no  more  mess 
'an  you  can  help,  or  won't  let  the  chilc^ 
touch  'em,  cause  they're  mostly  nasty. 
So  you  can't  lose  a  deal  o*  time,  an'  you'll 
get  soinethin'  into  the  bargain." 

"I'll  do  it;  I'll  do  it  willin'ly," returned 
the  old  woman,  her  eyes  brightening,  and 
lier  whole  face  expressing  her  full  approval 
of  the  arrangement. 

Top  bustled  about,  filled  his  pails  with 
sand,  put  on  his  patched  jacket  and 
oil-clotli  cap,  and  then  lingered  a  moment  to 
look  at  the  child,  who  had  fallen  asleep  with 
the  collapsed  sugar-teat  hanging  from  one 
corner  of  its  little  mouth.  "  Isn't  it  lovely  ? 
Isn't  it  sweet  ?  "  he  murmured,  bending  over 
it,  and  brushing  its  solt  cheek  with  his  wrin- 
kled old  face.  "  Mind,  now.  Mother  Bircli, 
an'  don't  let  it  he  hungry  ;  for  there's  plenty 
o'  milk,  an'  a  fire  to  warm  it,  an'  sugar  to 
sweeten  it ;  an'  don't  let  a  body  'sides  your- 
self jiut  a  finger  on  it,  now  mind  you!  If 
you  do,  I'll  bury  you  'live  in  that  sand-heap^ 
as  sure's  my  name's  Top!"  ami  with  this 
awful  threat  he  hobbled  oil',  looking  back 
with  I'll  expression  of  niiir^lcd  love  and 
anxiety  at  the  sleeping  child. 


aijai-ViifcHWilUMiii'  li".!  i;^W.i.'iU'y' 


12 


ROPE3  OF  SAND. 


Long  boforc  Mnthor  Birch  oxi)Pcti'(l  liiin, 
Top  r(!-ap|ii'!iri'(l,  hurried  ami  civicr,  his 
pails  oiiiply  of  sand,  and  filled  instead  witli 
'red  (lannel  and  din|j;y  linen.  "  How  i.s  the 
little  cretin-'?"  he  cried  liefore  he  had 
fairly  closed  the  door.  "  What !  slept  all  the 
time  ?   You  don't  say  that  it's  never  woke  !  " 

"  Not  nineh  to  speak  of,"  returned  Jlolher 
Birch  with  a  satisfied  chuckle.  "  It  nestled 
a  little  once,  an'  I  fed  it  with  some  milk, 
an'  turned  it  over.  Then  it  went  right  otl' 
asle(!p  d'rcctly,  an'  ain't  moved  since.  You 
sec,  Top,  the  poor  mite's  been  dragged 
about,  an'  been  hungry  an'  cold  likely, 
ever  since  it  was  born  ;  now  it's  warm  an' 
comfortable,  it  wants  to  sleep  a  deal,  which 
is  best  for  such  wee  things." 

Toj)  assented  with  a  good-natured,  "  Yes, 
yes :  you're  right ;  no  doubt,  you're  right. 
But  look  a  here,  Mother  Birch,  an'  sec 
what  I've  got."  Then  he  emptied  the 
contents  of  the  pails  on  the  table.  Two  red 
flannel  petticoats,  a  frock,  two  little  caps, 
and  a  pair  of  tiny  socks,  with  some  coarse 
much-worn  baby-linen,  comprised  his  pur- 
chases. "Now,  ain't  these  here  little  duds 
good  enough  (or  the  Prince  o'  Wales;  now 
ain't  they  Y  "  he  questioned  earnestly. 

Mother  Birch  assured  him  that  thoy 
were  good  enough  for  any  of  the  royal 
family,  adding,  with  a  toothless  grin  of 
delight,  that  "  nothing  was  too  good  for 
such  a  dear  little  thing,  as  slept  all  the 
time,  and  wasn't  no  trouble  to  nobody." 

"  An'  I  got  'em  for  'most  nothiu' :  three 
shillin's  for  all.  It's  true,  they're  worn  a 
little ;  but  then,  they'll  last  a  while,  for  all  o' 
that,"  saiil  Top,  selecting  a  complete  out- 
fit, and  fidgeting  back  and  forth  between 
the  table  and  the  bed,  comparing  the  size 
of  the  clothes  with  the  diminutive  thing 
wrapped  in  his  old  jacket. 

At  last  the  bundle  stirred.  Two  little 
pink  hands  struggled  out  from  among  the 
blue  and  brown  patches,  and  a  sound,  that 
was  as  much  a  grunt  of  contentment  as  a 
cry,  proclaimed  the  baby  to  l)e  awake. 

"  I'll  dress  it,  Top,"  said  Mother  Birch, 
officiously  seating  herself,  and  turning  her 
apron  the  clean  side  out. 


"  No,  no !  that  you  don't,  mistress," 
returneil  Top,  with  an  air  of  entire  propri- 
etorship :  "  it's  my  baby;  an'  I'm  a  goin'  to 
dress  it  the  first  time  myself:  an'  you 
needn't  be  so  busy  an'  useful  when  there's 
no  need." 

•'  But  a  woman's  more  handier,  you 
know,"  suggested  Mother  Birch  humbly, 
her  shrill  voice  wonderfully  soft  and  com- 
placent, in  spite  of  Top's  snubbing. 

"  I'm  handy  enough.  I  don't  want  to 
be  no  handier  'an  I  am.  Just  stand  by  an' 
see  how  lovely  an'  neat  I'll  dress  the  little 
cretuV.  There,  there,  chickcy I"  he  jiiur- 
mured  soothingly,  as  the  child  twisted  its 
little  limbs,  and  nestled  against  his  rough 
jacket  with  the  instinct  that  teaches  a 
baby  where  to  seek  for  Us  natural  nourish- 
ment. 

"  I'm  'fraid  I'll  break  it,  it's  so  little  an' 
delicate:  I  declare,  I'm  'fraid  I'll  break  itl" 
said  Top  ruefully,  as  he  vainly  tried  to 
introduce  its  tiny  pink  feet  into  the  little 
socks. 

Mother  Birch  watched  with  a  sarcastic 
smile  bis  awkward  and  inefii'ectual  attempts, 
until  he  looked  up,  and  said  with  pathetic 
humility,  "You're  right,  mistress:  you're 
quite  right.  I  ain't  as  handy  as  I  thought. 
I  believe  wiuiniiu  is  cleverer  'an  a  man 
with  babies;  but  I'll  learn.  Top'U  learn 
in  no  time,  if  you'll  jist  give  him  a  lifb 
now." 

Tlie  old  woman  could  not  resist  this 
kindly  invitiition,  especially  when  her  fin- 
gers were  itching  to  get  hold  of  the  child  ; 
so,  with  an  amiable  grin  that  inq)lied  full 
p.ardon  for  Top's  snubbing,  she  set  to  work; 
and,  in  a  few  moments,  the  little  creature 
was  as  respectably  and  comfortably  clothed 
a  baby  as  ever  was  seen,  even  in  the  most 
aristocratic  family  of  that  neighborhood. 

"  There,  now  I  "  said  Top,  as  soon  as  the 
important  toilet  was  completed,"!  s'pose 
you  want  to  be  about  your  work  ;  don't  you, 
Mother  Birch  ?  an'  I  don't  need  you  no 
more  to-<lay." 

"  I'm  kind  o'  unwillin'  to  leave  the 
young  one ;  still,  I  must,  or  I  sha'n't  get 
nothiu'   done  to  my  rags,"  said  the  old 


' 


I  don't,  mistress"," 
iiir  of  entire  propri- 
' ;  an'  I'm  a  }j;oin'  to 

0  myself:  an'  you 
useful  when  there's 

norc  handier,  you 
Iier  Bireh  htiini)ly, 
■fully  soft  and  corn- 
's sniihbing. 

I   don't  want  to 

Just  stand  hy  an' 

I'll  dress  the  little 

chiekey!"  he  .niur- 

le  cliild  twisted  its 

1  against  liis  rough 
let  that  teaches  a 
Us  natural  nourish- 

it,  it's  so  little  an' 
'fraid  I'll  break  it  1" 
he   vainly  tried    to 

feet  into  the  little 

:d  with  a  sarcastic 
nefi'ectual  attempts, 
1  said  with  pathetic 
it,  mistress :  you're 
landy  as  I  thought, 
everer  'an  a  man 
jarn.  Top'll  learn 
ist  give  liim  a   lift 

dd  not  resist  this 
ially  when  her  fin- 
hold  of  the  child ; 
n  that  implied  full 
ng,  she  set  to  work; 
,  the  little  creature 
comfortably  clothed 
,  even  in  the  most 
It  neighborhood. 
Fop,  as  soon  as  the 
)mpletcd,  "  I  s'pose 
ur  work  ;  don't  you, 
on't  need  you   no 

lin'  to  leave  the 
3t,  or  I  sha'n't  get 
ags,"  said  the  old 


BLUE-EYKD  VIOLET. 


13 


woman,  with  a  lingering  look  at  the  child, 
as  she  turned  toward  the  door. 

Motlur  Hirch  wjis  what  they,  in  their 
vulgar  parlance,  called  a  "bad  lot."  Her 
coarse,  wrinkled  face  bore  the  indelible 
stamp  of  an  evil  life  ;  and  those  who  knew 
her  l)e.-t  <lechired  that  she  had  neither  heart 
nor  soul,  so  depraved  and  vieiouR  was  she 
in  her  conduct.  But  there  nnist  have  been 
some  latent  good  under  the  crust  of  sin  and 
degradation,  some  sensitive  spot  that  the 
fires  of  i)assion  had  not  seared,  or  that  soft, 
almost  tender  smile  would  never  have 
touched  her  lips  as  she  turned  away  from 
Top's  baby. 

Every  one  in  the  lane  knew  how  the 
little  stranger  had  come  among  them  ;  for 
the  night  before,  when  Top  found  that  the 
woman  was  dead,  he  had  rushed  out  and 
called  in  his  neighbors,  who  had  cared  for 
the  ])oor  body,  and  prepared  it  for  its  burial 
as  decently  as  their  liumble  means  would 
allow  them  to  do.  Now,  as  Mother  liirch 
emerged  from  the  old  man's  cellar,  all  the 
A  women   and   children   cried  out,   "  How's 

Top's  baby  V  how's  Top's  baby  ?  " 

"  As  well  as  can  be,  you  rag-a-muffins, 
you  I  Stop  your  noise,  an'  get  out  o*  my 
way  I  I  don't  want  to  answer  none  o'  your 
questions,"  replied  the  old  creature  as  she 
hurrieil  along  with  an  air  of  great  impor- 
tance ;  while  the  women  hurled  taunts  and 
insults  after  her,  and  the  children  straight- 
ened themselves  up,  puffed  out  their  cheeks, 
and,  with  their  hands  on  their  hips,  imitated 
her  appearance,  walking  close  behind  her, 
until  she  disappeared  within  her  own  door. 

As  soon  as  Top  was  alone,  he  turned 
toward  his  treasure  with  an  air  of  relief: 
already  it  was  so  precious  to  him,  that  he 
was  jealous  if  anotlier  touched  it,  or  looked 
at  it ;  besides,  he  felt  a  sort  of  awkward 
shame,  a  kind  of  fear  of  showing  his  love 
for  it,  of  petting  and  caressing  it  before 
strangers. 

"  I'm  glad  she's  gone,"  he  said,  with  a 
great  sigh  of  contentment,  as  he  held  the 
child  close  to  his  heart,  and  swayed  back 
and  forth  gently.  "  She's  a'  old  meddler,  is 
Mother  Birch,  an'  I'm  very  sorry  I've  got  to 


leave  you  with  licr,  chiekey ;  but  I  can't 
help  it:  you  ain't  old  enough  to  stay  alone, 
an'  Top's  got  to  sell  his  sand  to  buy  bread 
an'  milk  for  your  little  stomach.  Oh! 
you're  a  beauty,  you  arc ;  such  soft  little 
hands  an'  feet,  such  little  fingers  an'  toes ! 
An'  you're  mine,  all  mine.  Top's  never  hud 
much;  an'  he's  al'ays  been  a  lonely  cretur', 
witii  no  one  but  hisself  to  talk  to.  Now 
he's  got  a  baby  that'll  stay  with  him  day 
an'  night,  that'll  laugh  an'  talk  some  day, 
an'  call  him  daddy.  Yes  :  you'll  say  daddy 
to  |)oor  old  Top,  won't  you,  deary  ?  'cause 
he's  al'ays  thought  as  how  he'il  like  to  have 
a  little  cretur'  to  call  him  daddy.  IIow 
thankful  I  am  that  your  poor  n)ammy  fell 
dowir  an'  died  on  my  sand-heap  'stead  o' 
any  other  !  'cause  it's  better  for  me  to  have 
her  baby  than  to  leave  it  to  suHer  like  him- 
dreils  of  poor  little  souls  in  this  great  city. 
Top'll  be  good  to  you,  little  one :  Top'll  bo 
real  good,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  full  of  ten- 
derness, as  he  stroked  his  wrinkled  old  face 
with  its  soft,  warm  hand.  "  Yes,  Top'll  be 
good.  He'll  give  you  enough  to  eat,  au*« 
nice,  clean  clothes  to  wear;  an'  when  you're 
big  enough,  you'll  go  to  school,  an'  learn  to 
read  like  a  real  gentleman.  Y(ju've  crcjjt 
into  my  heart,  baby,  —  my  poor  old  heart 
that's  al'ays  been  kinil  o'  empty,  a  waitin' 
for  somethin'.  Now  God's  sent  you  to  fill  it, 
an'  it'll  never  be  hungry  any  more ;  for  you 
crowd  it  full  o'  love,  till  it's  ready  to  burst." 
Here  the  old  man's  trembling  voice  broke 
into  a  sob ;  and,  laying  his  face  against  the 
silken  hair  of  the  child,  he  wept  happy 
tears  for  the  first  time  in  his  dreary  life. 


CHAPTER   HI. 


MLUE-EVED    VIOLET. 


Before  the  dwellers  in  Black-cat  Lane 
were  well  aware  of  it,  Top's  baby  liad 
grown  into  a  fine  lad  of  twelve  years.  He 
was  a  tall,  straight,  handsome  boy,  with 
regular  features,  and  serious  brown  eyes, 
so  calm   and  deep    that  they   seemed  al- 


r« 


14 


ROPES  OF  SAND. 


ready  to  have  looked  into  the  mysteries  of 
life.      His  I'l'ieili,   maiineiN,  nw\  cliarai- 
ter    were    alto-ether     superior    to    those 
around  him;  and,  as  Top  always  kept  h-m 
clean  and  fairly  well  dresse.l,  cM)u.i)anMl  to 
the  othi-r  dirty,  ra--ed  children,  he  looked 
every   inch  a  little   aristocrat.     Then   he 
knew  how  to  read  and  write;    for  the  oUl 
man  had  kept  the  promise  made  to  his  haby. 
and  had  tried  to  have  him  tau-ht  like  a 
"  real  gentleman."  llesides,  he  never  exact- 
ed any'labor  from  the  boy,  who  was  not  idle 
and  indiflerent,  but  simply   ignorant  that 
there  was  any  need   of  his  working.     He 
had  always  had  a  poor  but  clean   bed, 
coarse  but  abundant  food,  decent  clothes, 
and  a  warm  (ire  in  winter ;  therefore  he  did 
not  know  how  dilferent  was  pinchin;,'  and 
do'radin^  w.int  from  his  comparatively  com- 
\l  forUble  iwsition.     Old  Top  adore.l  him  as 

Jlj  gomeihin-  infinitely  superior  tooiher  chd- 

^  dren.     He  was  proud  that  his  hands  were 

soft  and  white,  his  skin  elean  and  smooth,  his 
beautiful  black  hair  carefully  eomlu^d,  and 
his  clothes   whole   and   neat.     It   was  no 
matter   if  he   worked  harder    than   ever, 
tottering   about  all  day   under  the  heavy 
weight  of  his  s.and,  e.irning  a  penny  hon- 
estly ;  no  matter  how  toilsome  the  means, 
scheming,    economizing,    pinching,    often 
goin^r  hungry  hiniself,  that  his  boy  might 
be  w"ell  fed ;  working  late  into  the  night  by 
the  feeble   flame  of  his  little  lamp,  while 
the  child  slept  peacefully  in  his  warm  bed. 
It  was  seldom  now  that  Top  retired  when 
Bow  Bells  struck  nine.     There  were  little 
socks  to  be   mended,  little   trousers   and 
jackets  to  be  patched,  an<l  little  shirts  to  be 
carefully  darned.     His  poor  old  back  oiten 
ached,  his  eves  were  dim  and  watery,  and 
bis  limbs  trembled  weakly  under  his  bur- 
den ;  for  he  was  growing  old,  —just  how  old 
he  did  not  know  ;  but  he  wiis  certainly  not 
far  from  seventy.     Yet  he  bore  the  labor 
and  privations  of  his  life  with  sweet  seren- 
ity and  patience,  and  no  one  ever  heard  a 
murmur  escape  his  lips-    Mother  Birch  had 
remonstrated  with  him  more   than  once, 
because  he  worked  like  a  slave,  and  did  so 
much  for  the  boy. 


"  Not  a  wonl.  not  a  word ! "  he  would  say 
with  an  impatient  jerk  of  the  head.     "  Top 
knows  what  he's  about,  an'  don't  want  no 
interferin';  Abel  ain't  like  other  boys,  ho 
iiin't.     There's  difference  'tween   fisli    an' 
fowl.    You  never  saw  him  a  playin'  in  the 
gutters,  black  an'  dirty ;  you  never  hear  no 
b;id   lang'age  out  o'  his  mouth,  nor  rude, 
nasty  tricks  like  other  young  ones.  ^  He 
likes  to  go  to  his  school,  clean  an'  rcg'lar  ; 
an'  when  he's  home,  he  likes  to  set  by  the 
fire  with  his  old  daddy  an'  his  books.     He's 
a  rare  boy,  Mother  Birch  ;  an'  I  count  my- 
self lucky  if  I  can  work  my  fingers  off  for 

him." 

In  this  Top  did  not  the  least  exaggerate. 
He  would  willingly  and  gladly  have  given 
every  limb  of  his  poor  old  body  for  the  boy, 
if  it  would  have  served  him  in  any  way. 
Labor  for  him  was   light,  self-denial  and 
privation  sweet.    It  did   not  matter  how 
tired  lie  was :  his  aching  back  and  stiff  limbs 
were  forgotten  when,  tlio  <lay"9  labor  over, 
his  boy  stood  at  his  side,  one   arm  laid 
fondly  around  his  neck  while  he  repeated 
iv  lesson,  or  read   a    simple  story,  which 
seemed  to  him  a  remarkable  aetiuirement 
for  one  so  young.     Or  sometimes  he  would 
kneel   at  the  old  man's  feet,  leaning  his 
head  against  his    kneo  while  ho  looked 
silent  and  thoughtful  into  the  glowing  fire. 
Top,  wondering  what  he  saw  there,  would 
remain  perfectly  quiet  lest  he  should  dis- 
turb a  reverie  that  seemed  sacred.    At  last 
he  would  look  up,  his  great  serious  eyes  full 
of  mysterious  light,  and  say,  "  Daddy,  don't 
you  see  things  in   the  fire,  —  cities   an' 
palaces  an'  mountains  ?  " 

"  No,  sonny,"  Top  would  reply  gravely : 
"  I  can't  say  as  I  do.  I  don't  see  nothin'  but 
red    coals    an'   black,  an'    bits  o'  white 

ashes." 

"  Why,  there,  in  the  middle  o'  tho  grate, 
there's  what  looks  like  human  beings  a 
struggling  an'  fighting  together.  Some- 
timeTthe  blaze  makes  them  red  an'  mad ; 
then  it  dies  out,  an'  they're  black  an'  solemn ; 
an'  at  last  they  all  go  to  smoke  an*  ashes. 
It's  like  life  some  way,  daddy,  isn't  it  ?  " 
"  Yes,  yes :  I  s'pose  it  is,"  Top  would  an- 


a.^l.muiiJAJ(».rt Ill" 


w»i»iiiniinaiiB>iil»iWWM»M'.'!"" 


BLUE-EYED  VIOLET. 


15 


1 ! "  he  would  say 
Ihe  huiul.     "  Top 
n'  don't  want  no 
;i'  other  hoys,  ho 
'twuen  fish    an' 
n  a  playin'  hi  the 
^oii  neviT  hear  no 
mouth,  nor  rudo, 
youii^  ones.     Ilo 
L'lean  an'  rc^'lar  ; 
iki'8  to  set  by  the 
'his  hooks.     Hu's 
;  an'  I  count  niy- 
my  fingers  off  for 

a  least  exag'j;erate. 
gladly  have  (^ivcn 
d  body  for  the  boy, 
him  in  any  way. 
lit,  self-denial  and 
I   not  matter  how 
back  and  stitV  limbs 
J  day's  labor  over, 
lido,  one   ann  laid 
while  he  repeated 
iinple  story,  which 
rkable  aeiiulrement 
sometimes  he  would 
•s  feet,  leaning  his 

0  while  ho  looked 
to  the  glowing  fire, 
he  saw  there,  would 

lest  he  should  dis- 
ued  sacred.  At  last 
reat  serious  eyes  full 

1  say,  "  Daddy,  don't 
le  fire,  —  cities  an' 
?" 

vould  reply  sjravely : 
don't  see  nothiu'  but 
,  an'    bits  o'  white 

s  middle  o'  the  grate, 
ike  human  beings  a 
ng  together.  Some- 
s  them  red  an'  mad ; 
sy're  black  an'  solemn ; 
»  to  smoke  an'  ashes, 
r,  daddy,  isn't  it?" 
J  it  is,"  Top  would  an- 


swer with  grave  reverence,  and  a  l(X)k  of 
wonder,  as  though  he  were  aHuenting  to 
the  polemn  |ir<>|ihe('y  of  a  Hiiered  oracle. 
He  had  told  the  lH>y  again  and  again  the 
sad  story  of  his  mother's  death,  always 
throwing  a  mantle  of  charity  over  lier  sins  ; 
and  tlie  child  would  li.sten  with  pale  cheeks 
and  tearful  eyes,  won<lering  if  she  really 
heard  the  voices  of  tho  sea,  and  saw  the 
downs,  and  the  ships,  and  her  father's  boat 
with  sunlight  on  tho  sails.  Where  were 
those  <lownH  she  played  u])on  when  achihl  V 
Who  was  her  father?  and  why  had  she  wan- 
dered so  lar  from  him  and  the  blue  sea,  to 
die  unknown  in  the  very  heart  of  London  ? 
These  thoughts  disturbed  the  dreamy  brain 
of  the  hoy,  and  awoke  in  him  a  vague  curi- 
osity to  know  something  of  his  mother's 
history. 

•'You  needn't  puzzle  yourself  about  it, 
child,"  Top  would  say,  in  reply  to  Ids  many 
questions.  "  It  don't  make  no  matter  who 
your  gran'daddy  was,  nor  where  he  lived. 
J?he  said  with  'most  her  last  breath,  that 
he  was  a  good  man ;  an'  that's  enough 
to  know.  You've  got  his  name,  an'  its 
a  fine  one  as  ever  a  lad  had.  Abel  is  a 
pious  name,  an'  Winter  sounds  serious  an' 
good.  Two  names,  my  boy ;  an'  poor  old 
Top  never  had  but  one,  an'  he  only  got  that 
by  chance.  I  don't  find  no  fault,  'cause  it 
ain't  no  use  now  as  I've  gone  through  my 
life  with  only  one  name.  Still,  it's  a  deal 
more  respectable  to  have  two,  an'  you've 
got  'em,  my  boy ;  so  be  contented,  an'  don't 
puzzle  your  brains  a  tryin'  to  find  out  what 
the  Lord  never  intended  you  to  know." 

Although  the  boy  was  still  called  Top's 
baby  by  the  greater  part  of  the  dwellers  in 
Black-cat  Lane,  Top  never  failed,  when 
speaking  of  him,  to  give  him  his  full  title ; 
for  to  the  simple-minded  old  man,  whom  fate 
had  defrauded  of  his  birthright,  it  was  the 
proudest  inheritance  that  he  could  possess. 

Sometimes  when  Abel  had  a  holiday,  and 
Top  was  away  at  his  work,  the  boy  would 
wander  off  alone  into  Lcadenhall  Street, 
through  Poultry  and  Cheapside  to  St.  Paul's, 
where  he  would  remain  ibr  hours,  looking 
with  a  sort  of  awe  at  the  solemn  pile,  think- 


ing how  near  tho  dome  was  to  Iieaven,  ami 
how  lie  should  like  to  be  a  bird  with  li^ht 
win'jfs,  that  he  might  tly  up  abov(!  the  smoke 
and  fog,  and  sit  and  sing  all  day  in  ndd- 
heaven,  hnjipy  and  tree.  Another  place 
that  particularly  pleased  him  was  Christ's 
lh)spital.  From  St.  Paul's  he  would  go 
into  Newgate  Street,  and  stand  for  hours 
with  his  earnest  faci-  pressed  against  llio 
raiJlM'z,  watching  the  scholart  at  their  piny. 
The  Ultie-coat  boys  were  very  curiiMis  and 
interesting  to  him  on  account  of  their  ipiaint 
costume.  Their  blue  gowns,  yellow  petti- 
coats, red  girdles,  and  white  eler;:yiMiin's 
band  round  their  necks,  seemed  to  distin- 
guish them  as  something  uncommon  and 
superior.  lie  looked  at  the  lofiy,  beautiful 
hull,  and  the  clean,  smooth  court  where 
they  played,  and  sighed  when  he  contrasted 
it  with  Top's  cellar,  and  the  dirty,  broken 
paving  in  ISIack-cat  Lane.  Poor  boy  !  ho 
was  beginning  to  take  life  seriously,  be- 
ginning to  leel,  in  the  depths  of  his  heart, 
the  dillerence  between  his  surroundings  and 
that  which  he  looked  upon  with  longing, 
admiring  eyes.  For  some  time  he  did  not 
know  just  what  this  institution  was:  until 
one  day  a  goo<l-na'i.ured  gentleman,  who  was 
watching  the  scholars  at  their  play,  noticing 
his  earnest,  intelligitnt  face,  entered  into 
conversation  with  him,  and,  in  reply  to  his 
eager  ({uestions,  told  him  that  it  was  a 
school  to  educate  poor  boys.  That  many 
great  men,  whose  names  would  live  always, 
had  there  learned  all  they  knew  ;  and  that 
knowledge  could  make  people  noble  in 
spite  of  lowly  birth  and  poverty. 

The  boy  went  home  more  thoughtfiil 
than  usual,  an<l  applied  himself  to  his  hooks 
with  renewed  /.eal.  For  days  and  days  a 
new  desire  filled  every  thought.  Why 
could  he  not  be  a  IJlue-eoat  boy,  and  learn 
every  thing,  and  become  great  through 
knowledge  ?  At  last  one  night,  when  he 
stood  by  Top  with  his  arm  over  his  shoulder 
in  aifectiouate  intimacy,  he  approached  the 
subject. 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  in  fear  and 
astonishment,  and  said,  with  a  pitiful  tremor 
in  his  voice,  "  Whv,  now,  Abel,  that  am't 


wmWWWiW.- 


'-MJ'Jiiw^sEr'' 


KOI'ES  OF  SAND. 

po.i,.l..!   you  .lon-t  .nnt  to  «o   an'  .lu.t ;  thin'  ,..   -"•    ^-•;;;  ^^l"   ^^^'']^ 

y„,„.  poor  ol.l  .lu.Mv  alo„..,  .lo  you  V  "  oftcu  want  l.oy.  o    your    a,o.  lo  .k 

*    :\; ,    ,   ,io„'t!    Im.v.rll .rht  oli>iroun.Uom...il  you'll  only  vva.limu.ut.  1 11 

':t'7::':r':l:iruu.uy..u..oui,.n-ti..a.u^^^^^ 


'fl 


p,.|  in,  ynu  .■(.uMu'i.     Tlu.l  sdioolV  lor  tin- 
ivxpei'tiilili!  iwor,  not  for  the  Ilk."  o"  ux.  n.y 
lail :  wf  «l<m't  oxat'tly  conu'  uiu1<t  that  lu'a<l. 
We've  no  Irii'UiU  to  lu'lp  us,  an'  tho  Lord 
Mayor  an'  aliiernu^n  ain't  a  (.'oiu'  to  liother 
th.'irKelves    with   hun.lilo    cn-lurV   aa   us. 
Tlifii  anollier  thin}.',  sonny,  you're  too  old. 
I've  heard  nay  as  no  child  eould  net  in  there 
atU'r  lie's  seven,  ami  you're  twelve ;   ho  it 
ain't  no  use  to  try.     'Sides,  there's  no  nee.l 
of  it :   you  can  reiul  an'  write,  an'  you're 
uneoinmou  clever  with  your  'rithnietic,  an' 
that's  enoui^h  ;  you've  learnt  pUnty  at  rag- 
ged school   to   take   you   throu-h   decent. 
Look  at  vourpoorold<laddy,he  never  knew 
nothin',  never  could    tell   one   letter  from 
another,  an'  never  had  no  one  to  send  hiui 
to  school.     I  hoi-c,  sonny,  you're  not  a  i;oin' 
to  find  fault  'cause  I  ain't  done  more   for 
you."     This  thought  was  more  than  the  old 
man  coul.l  hear:  his  voice  was  choked  with 
emotion,  and  somethiu;;  like   a  sob  broke 
from  his  full  heart. 

"  Find  fault  with  you,  daddy,  dear  I  no, 
no,  imleed  1 "  said  Abel,  lian<;in{,'  round  his 
neck,    and    crying    with    liiin.      "You've 
always  been  <;ood  to  me,  too  ^ood :  don't 
think  I  complain;    but  l'<l   like   to  be    a 
scholar,  and  know  every  tliin^;,  for  I'm  sure 
readin-  and  writing  isn't  all ;  and  I'd  like  to 
be  rich  and  "jreat,  so  that  I  could  t;ive  you 
a  fine  house  to  live  in  with  a  t;ar.len,  and  a 
hike,  and  a  boat  on  the  Thames.    1  won't 
say  any  more  about  the  Blue-coat  School : 
1  won't    think    any  more    about   it;   but, 
daddy,  1  want  to  do  something  to  earn  my 
own  living.    You're  too  old  to  work  ibr  me, 
and  I  do  nothing." 

"liless  my  soul,  boyl  what  ails  you 
now?  I  ain't  a  workin'  for  you,  I'm  a 
workin'  for  myself;  an'  you  ain't  no  extra 


to  defer  the  long-dreaded  day  that  would 
separat'!  them  in  a  measure.     Uc  could  not 
endure  the  thou-ht  that  his  boy   was  no 
longer  a  baby,  that  he  was  fast  growing  to 
an  age  when  ho  must  go  out  into  the  worhl 
and  struggle  for  himself.     But,  while  the 
old    man    procrastinated,    Abel    was   busy 
looking   out   Ibr   his    own    interests.     Ho 
never  passed  a  counting-iiouse  into  which  ho 
did  not  slip,  ami  ask  modestly  and  respect- 
fully, if  Ih-y  ncclcd  a  boy.     Nearly  every 
„ne  spoke  kindly  to  him  ;  Ibr  his  handsome, 
intelligent  face   and  remarkable    neatness 
impressed   them  favorably.     Although   no 
one   wanted   him   at   that   moment,  many 
promised  to  give   him   the    first  vacancy  ; 
and,  with  this  in  prospect,  he  waited  hope- 
fully, with  many  strange  dreams  of  the  fu- 
ture iloatirg  through  his  restless  brain. 

When  Abel  promised  T<.p  that  he  would 
think  no  more  about  the  Blue-coat  School, 
lie  tried  very  hard  not  to  do  so;   yet   he 
could  not  drive  it  from  his  mind.    Day  after 
day  ho  lingered  around  the  double  railing 
on  Newgrte    Street,  watching   the   happy 
bovs,  and  envying  them  as  much  as  it  was 
in  his  noble  iitlle  heart  to  envy  any  one. 
As  he  was  returning  home  from  his  visit, 
late  one  afternoon,  a  little  girl  sitting    on 
the  steps  of  the  Mansion  House  attracted 
his  attention.    Her  face  was  covered  with 
her  hands,  and  she  was  weeping  bitterly. 
Her  Iroek  was  dirty  and  ragged ;  and  her 
little  bare  feet  were  grimy  and  bruised,  as 
tliough  she  had  walked  over  rough  paths, 
while  her  torn  apron  was  full  of  crushed 
and  broken  violets  bound  together  with  bits 
of  soiled  ribbon  wliich  showed  that  they 
had  been  tied  up  into  small  bouquets  such 
as  gentlemen  wear  in  their  t'oats. 

"  What's  the    matter    with    you,  little 


u  you  aiu  I  no  call.  -  .     ,       ,.  i  „_ 

1         <r,\\   «mv  vou're  "et-    "irl  V  "  said  Abel  gently,  bending  over  her, 


,.~v^^ii'fm,-%'.u>r'^'*^M.''m!S^ .  iitniw?3tfg* 


*  lots  o'  countiti'- 
itri'ct,  wlurc  ilii'y 
ir  ii^ii!.  I'll  l'>"lt 
ly  wail  imlii'iit ;  I'll 

I'll  imtu'iitly.  Top 
|)iimii-i',  or.  /i'lu'il 
ii!(l  iliiy  tliiit  would 
sure.  liccouKl  not 
lit  his  boy  was  no 
was  I'ast  lii-owin;^  to 

0  out  into  tl"!  world 
i>lf.  IJiit,  while-  the 
■a,  Alu'l  was  busy 
own  interests,  llu 
r-house  into  which  ho 
lodi'stly  and  respect- 
boy.     Nearly  every 

111 ;  for  his  handsonu", 
•eniarkablu  neat:ies8 
•ably.  Aliliou|j;h  no 
that  moment,  many 
n  the  first  vacancy  ; 
lect,  he  waited  hope- 
;ire  dreams  of  the  fu- 
lis  restless  brain, 
id  To])  that  he  would 
he  niue-coat  School, 
ot  to  do  so;  yet  he 

1  his  mind.  Day  after 
id  the  double  railing 
watchin;,'  the  happy 
!m  as  much  as  it  was 
lart  to  envy  any  one. 
hon\e  from  his  visit, 

little  <;irl  sitting    on 
ision  IIousc  attracted 
ice  was  covered  with 
was  weeping  bitterly, 
and  ragged  ;  and  her 
<rriniv  and  bruised,  as 
ed  over  roiigh  paths, 
n  was  full  of  crushed 
)und  together  with  bits 
ich  showed  that  they 
)  small  bouquets  such 
1  their  t'oats. 
itter    with    you,  little 
ntly,  bending  over  her, 
ids  away  from  her  face. 


\ 


ULITK-KYRD  VIOLKT. 


17 


Ills  pleasant  voice  imothed  her  directly. 
Swaliowiii'^  a  great  sob,  she  rai-ied  ii  pair 
of  wonderfu!  Ii|iii>  eyes  ronfidingiy,  and 
sail],  ill  a  very  sweet,  winning  voicu,  "  Ii'm 
nwfiil,  it's  re.d  awful  I  " 

"  What's  awful  ?  an'  what  are  you  prying 
for?  an' what's  your  violets  all  broken  to 
pieci's  for '/  " 

"  It's  that  I'm  cryin'  aliont :  my  vi'Iets  U 
all  riiiniMl.  Some  nasty,  bail  Iwys  snatched 
my  board  away,  an'  pulled  them  nil  out  of 
the  holes,  an*  tore  'era  all  in  pieces,  an' 
throwcil  'cm  in  my  lap,  and  run  aw.iy  as 
fast  as  ever  they  could  ;  an'  now  I  ain't  got 
none  to  sell,  an*  Mammy  Flint'll  beat  me 
awful  if  I  go  homi!  without  money.  An' 
I'm  hungry  an'  tired."  Here  the  poor 
little  soul  broke  into  bitter  sobs,  and  buried 
her  face  again. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Abel  encouragingly  : 
"  dim't  cry  so,  an'  I'll  try  an*  help  you. 
Wiiy  didn't  you  call  a  policeman  before 
they  run  away  ?  " 

"  Lor',  Iwy,  what  a  flat  you  are  I  "  and  she 
looked  at  him  with  undisguised  contempt 
in  her  great  blue  eyes.  «  You  don't  'spose 
p'licemcn  is  ever  round  I  Why,  they're 
never  nowhere  when  you  want  'em.  I  did 
cry  an'  call ;  but  no  one  heard  me,  least 
ways  if  they  did,  they  didn't  come.  Oh  I 
oh !  Mammy  Flint'll  beat  mo  awful  if  I  go 
home  without  no  money." 

"Tliere,  there,  don't  cry  so  I  "said  the 
boy  again ;  for  the  passionate  weeping  of 
the  child  moved  him  strangely.  « 'Tell  me 
■where  you  live,  an'  what's  your  name." 

"  My  name's  Vi'lct,"  she  replied :  "  they 
call  me  Blue-eyed  Vi'let,  most  al'ays ;  an' 
Mammy  Flint  lives  in  Duck's-foot  Lane, 
an'  1  stay  with  her  when  she  don't  beat  me 
an'  drive  me  away." 

"  Haven't  you  no  father,  nor  no  mother  ?" 
questioned  Abel,  his  little  heart  all  aglow 
with  indignation  against  Mammy  Flint, 
and  admiration  for  tlie  beautiful  child. 

"  No :  I  ain't  none.  Mammy  Flint  says 
as  how  my  mother  sold  flowers  in  Drury 
Lane,  an'  how  she  was  a  real  beauty,  an' 
a  'ansome  actor  fell  in  love  with  her,  an' 
how  she  died  when  I  was  born ;  an'  that's 


all  I  know,  which  isn't  mnih.  P'rhnps  if 
she'll  lived,  .Maiiiiny  Flint  woiililu't  a  got 
me,  an*  I  wouldn't  a  iieen  beat  so." 

"Poor  little  thing  I"  returned  Abel; 
"  but  what  makes  you  j,'o  back  to  M;iinmy 
Flint  again  when  she's  so  eriiel  to  you  i"' 

"'Cause  I  ain't  got  no  other  jilaee  to  yo; 
an'  I'm  hungry  an'  tired,"  ,iaid  Violet, 
looking  imploringly  Into  the  face  of  her 
little  champion. 

"  Never  mind,  come  along  with  mo.  I've 
got  a  good  home  with  Uaddy  Top.  He's 
real  good,  he's  always  real  good  to  me ;  an' 
I  know  he'll  give  you  something  to  eat,  an' 
p'rhaps  lie'll  let  you  stay  with  us." 

Violet  hung  bac^k,  drawing  away  from 
Abel's  prolTered   hand,  while    her   cheeks 
suddenly  Hushed   crimson,  and    her  great 
blue  eyes  sought  the  ground  with  evident 
ginlt  and  confusion.    "  I'm  'shamed  to  go 
with  you,"   she  stammered   out    at    last, 
"  'cause  I  told  you  an  awful  lie  'Ixiut  them 
vi'Iets.   I  broke  'cm  to  pieces  myself.  Thiu'.s 
a  dodge  Mammy  Flint  learnt  us  ;  an'  it  pays 
better  'an  sellin'  'em  whole.     When  they' 
gets  a  little  wilted,  we  tears  'em  up ;  an' 
then  we  sets  down,  and  cries  like  mad  till 
some  one  comes  along  as  pities  us,  an'  asks 
us  what's  the  matter.  Tlien  wo  tells  'em  the 
same  story  as  I  just  told  you,  when  no  boys 
ain't  been  a  near  us;  an'  they  most  al'ays 
give   us  a   shillin',  an'  sometimes    more. 
When  we've  sold  that  party,  wo  goes  to 
another  place,  and  plays  the  same  game, 
till   a  p'lieeman  comes  'long  an'  spots  us. 
I'hen  we  have  to  run  away  an'  keep  out  o' 
sight,  or  else  we'd  get  trapped,  an'  our  fun'd 
be  spi'led." 

Abel  looked  at  her  in  profound  astonish- 
ment ;  for,  although  he  had  lived  all  his  life 
in  the  midst  of  iniquity,  owing  to  Top's 
watchfulness  and  his  own  natural  gcxidness, 
he  knew  very  little  of  such  dark  ways. 
The  coolness,  and  evident  relish,  with  which 
the  little  imp  told  her  story  at  first  fright- 
ened and  disgusted  him ;  and  he  was  inclined 
to  run  away  and  leave  her  to  lier  fate. 
Then,  on  second  thought,  he  felt  that  it 
would  be  ignoble  and  cowardly  to  desert 
her,  as  she  was  only  the  victim  of  Mamm/ 


It 


iiy  wiwiji 


I'  'Jmiiiiiiiiiiii . 


la 


MOH'.S  OF  HAND. 


Flint,  nn<l,  likely.  li;iil  ncvor  Ix'.'ii  laii.;li' 
any  iii'tttT  ;  mul  llu'U  i-lif  wan  m>  juiiii'^  iu»<l 
Ml  |.i'i'liy,  it  w.ii  ilivaill'iil  to  l<iivu  h«T  to 
thii  ii'ii.lcr  iinTiii"*  1)1'  Hiiili  a  wretch  a*  lliii* 
erwaiiiiH'  who  luul  coiniittiMl  her  m)  early. 

Wiiilo  Ahi'l  wax  thiiikiii,'  this  over, 
icuree  kmiwinn  what  to  <1<>,  Au:  was  wal(  h- 
In;;  iiiin  luixioiisly.  "  I  r'|>om!  you  (hm't 
want  inn  to  «o  with  you  now  you  know  iiow 
uwliil  I  lieV"  cho  siiil  at  h'Hirtli,  willi  iv 
sort  ortiuii.l  itniile,  wliilc  thu  tears  gathercil 
slowly  in  litT  cyns. 

"  I'm    sorry,    I'm    real    sorry,   you're  ho 
wieked."  returneil    Aliel    ceriously.     "  I'm 
nlVaid  Daildy  Top  won't  like,  me  to  hriii;,' 
home  a  little  (;irl  that  tlon'l  tell  the  truth." 
"  Yon  needn't  blamo  ini-,  you  needn't," 
(laid  Violet,  a  little  sullenly.     "  It  ain't  my 
i'ault :  A\ii  luiikes  me  do  it.    If  I  didn't,  she'd 
beat   mo  to  death  every  day,  dho  would. 
Oh,  I'm  awful  'Iraid  of  her  !     An'  I  ean't 
(TO  hack  to  her  to-day,  any  way,  'I'ause  I've 
tlirowed  away  my  vi'lets,  an'  I  ain't  <,'ot  no 
money,   an'    I   ca'i't  get   none   now.     It's 
awlnl,  it's  real  awful  !     I  wish  I  hadn't  told 
you,  I  do,  then  you'd  a  took  me  with  you." 
Here.    ]iiissionato   sobs  ehoked   her  voice; 
and,   thniwin„'   herself  on    the   steps,   she 
bur.-t  into  a  llooil  of  j,'enuino  tears  which 
melted  Abel's  heart  directly. 

"  Don't  cry  any  more,  don't,  for  pity's 
Buke  !  and  I'll  take  you  just  the  same.  Of 
coin-se  it  ain't  your  fault ;  and  you  sha'n't 
go  back  to  that  horrid  old  woman  that 
makes  you  do  such  wicked  thin;^s.  I'll  tell 
Daihly  Top  all  about  it,  and  he'll  help  you 
to  get  an  honest  living." 

The  chilli  spran;,'  up  readily,  wiped  off 
the  tears  with  her  dirty  apron,  and  gave 
her  little  hand  confidingly  to  Abel,  who  led 
her  away  from  the  m\  and  suffering  of  her 
old  life,  to  what  might  have  been  a  beauti- 
ful destiny,  but  for  the  fatal  inheritance 
left  Iu;r  by  her  mother. 

"  Where  in  the  world  did  you  get  that 
little  crctur'  ?  "cried  Top,  who  stood  in  the 
door  as  Abel  approached,  still  holding  the 
hand  of  the  child. 

»  O  daddy  1  I  ibuud  her  a  crying  on  the 
Mansion-house  steps  I "  and  the  boy  told  her 


brief,  Had  history,  with  'flowing  cheeks  and 
sparklin,:;  eyes.  "  Now  give  her  «nmeihin;| 
to  eat,  i'tr  Aw't  tired  an'  himjity,  theru'n  n 
dear  d.iddy." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Abel,  o*  course  I  will.  Old 
Top  never  refiiM'H  nothin'  you  a-k  him, 
does  he  V  I  don't  wonder  you  pity  tli"  poor 
mite.  It's  awlul  to  he  brought  np  iu  such 
sin  an"  wickedness,  an'  so  dirty  too!  1 
b'lieve  a  little  waler'll  do  her  more  good 
'an  vict'als  at  first.  So  your  name's  Vi'let  ? 
I  hopi!  you'll  be  a  good  Utile  gal,  'eaiise 
you've  got  a  real  sweet  name  as  al'ays 
'minds  me  o*  spring,"  said  'lop,  addressing 
the  child  kindly,  as  he  poured  out  a  ba>in 
of  fresh  water,  and  gave  her  some  soap  and 
ft  coarse,  clean  towel.  "  Now  w.ish  yourself 
clean,  mind,  real  clean  ;  for  Top  don't  like 
dirt,  'specially  on  children  :  "  and,  with  this 
injunction,  he  left  the.  child  to  her  ablutions, 
and  went  to  the  door-ste[)  where  Abel  was 
sitting  in  deep  thought. 

"  Now,  sonny,  what's  to  be  done  with  this 
little  crctur'  you've  brought  home?  We 
can  give  her  a  crust  to  eat,  that's  true  ;  but 
she  can't  sleep  here,  fieein'  we've  only  one 
room.  She's  (piite  ft  big  gul,  ten  ye.irs  old 
I  should  think;  so  you  see,  she  can't  stay 
hero  o'  nights." 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,  daddy,"  said 
Abel  dejectedly,  while  Top  scratched  his 
head  and  poi\dered  dee])ly. 

"  I've  got  a  plan  at  last,"  cried  the  old 
man,  briglitening  up.  "  I'll  go  an'  seo 
Mother  Hindi :  I  b'lieve  she'll  let  her  stay 
with  her  nights,  'cause  she's  feeble-like  now, 
an"  all  alone,  an'  the  child'll  be  company 
for  her.  She's  better  an'  more  'uinble  'an 
she  used  to  be ;  an'  she  won't  be  bad  to  her, 
if  she  ain't  a  goin'  to  cost  her  nothin'.  I'll 
go  right  off  an'  see  her,  belbre  I  give  you 
your  "supper ;  an'  I'll  bo  back  by  the  time 
the  little  gal's  washed." 

Abel  watched  the  old  man  hobble  off  on 
his  errand  of  kindne.«s,  and  then  peeped  into 
the  door  to  see  if  Violet  had  finished  her 
bath.  She  was  rubbing  her  lace  vigorously, 
and  shaking  her  abundant  curly  hair  while 
she  laughed  to  see  the  water  fall  in  showers 
over  her  bare  white  arms. 


■j.ij'j»ln.M.iu»i»«m"^"V't'>'-i'.Olil»»'.W>»J»IW|l!'>«i«ljl&W^ 


THE  OLD  STORY. 


will;;  clicik't  nw\ 

VI'  lll'l'  •><>U|l-|lllll^ 

hiiiijiry,  iheru'n  ft 

iiw  I  will.  0{(f 
1*  )oii  ii-k  liiiii, 
yiiii  |iilv  ill"  IMMit' 
iii'^ht  111)  ill  Hiii'li 
Ko  ilirty  III')!  1 
II  lnT  iiHir''  «i«)il 
iiir  niiine'!*  V'i'lct  ? 
Hull'  Kill,  'ciiiinu 
n;iiuc  ii'<  iil'iiyK 
I  'I'op,  iviMri-iHiiv^ 

lirml  out  11  lill:<ln 
u'l'  dome  fimp  ivml 
low  Wiisli  yoiirsi'lt' 
titr  Tup  iliiii'l  likii 
I ;  "  mill,  with  this 
il  to  lu'r;iljlution-<, 
p  whiTu  A1h;1  was 

I  1h!  (loiHi  with  this 
il;,'ht  hoiiH'V  NVe 
it,  that's  trim  ;  hut 
■In'  wii'vi.'  only  ono 
j^al,  ti'ii  yi'.irs  old 
seo,  »Lo  Oil  n't  stay 

that,  daihly,"  said 
Top  scratched  bis 
:ly. 

ast,"  cried  the  old 
"  I'll  i^o  an'  SCO 
she'll  let  her  stay 
le's  fecble-liko  now, 
liild'U  be  company 
i'  more  'iiinble  'an 
won't  be  bad  to  her, 
st  her  nothin'.  I'll 
r,  belbre  I  tiive  you 

0  back  by  the  timo 

1  man  hobble  oflT  on 
nd  then  peeped  into 
■t  had  finished  her 
her  iace  vigorously, 
,nt  curly  hair  while 
vater  fall  in  showers 


I!) 


"  SIki'k  ever  tm  minli  prettier  now  hUv'a 
clean,"  thiiil^ht  Abfj.  ••  I  do  hope  duddy  'II 
let  her  Hiay  here  alwayo,  hIic'II  In-  hi  niiicli 
tof/ipiny  Tor  me;  mid  »<h<!  diM'Kn't  Keem  a 
wicked  I'liild,  aller  nil, '  In  the  liili|<it  of  hit 
»o!^''"<|iiy,  Top  letiirued  to  Niiy  liial  .MuiIut 
Birili  \v;|s  [lerfcetly  willin,'  lli;it  the  Utile 
yirl  >liiiiild  sh.iiv  l((  rhiiiuble  lied.  "She's 
old  an' feeble  now,"  said  Tup  coiiipaMHion- 
aleli .  "  an'  its  Ix'tter  for  her  to  have  Hoine 
one  with  her  »/  iii;;hl,s.  "cause,  if  she's  wor^-e, 
Violet's  hijif  enou'^h  to  call  in  lhenei;,'lil)ors, 
nn'  f^o  ,«Iii\  won't  be  the  least  in  the  way." 

Tlii'ii  the  old  iiiiiii  biiNtliMl  iiroiiiid  iiiid 
prepiireii  the  simple  evening,'  meal,  while 
Aiiel  showed  tlie  ehiliHiis  bonks,  and  opi'ned 
to  her,  for  the  fust  liiiie  in  her  lile,  the 
beaiiiifiil  new  world  of  knowledge. 

'I'he  next  morning  Top   boii;;ht  a  fresh 
siip[»ly  of  (lowers  fir  Violet,  ami  sent  her 
out    with    miii'h    K"ol   advice,    tellin;;    her 
seriously   but    kindly    that   she  must  work 
lioiiestly  to  earn  her  llvin-,',  as  he  wa.s  ((ki 
poor  to  feed  and  clothe   her,  and   that  she 
must  b(!  a  ttood  child,  and  ivniember,  if  .she 
did  not  sell  her  (lowers,  that  she  must  not 
resort    to   falsehood,  as  she  always    had  a 
home    ti)    come    to    where    there,     was    no 
Miimmy  Flint    to    beat  her.     Lon;f  btfore 
ni,dil,   Violet    retiirneil  bri;;ht  and  happy. 
She  had  snlii  all  her  llowers  and  broui,dit  Top 
llio   proceeds,   which  were   three  siiillin^s. 
Wiih    this  lie   boii.;lit  jut   a  neat,  second- 
hand calico  frock  at  his  old  friend's,  the  Jew 
ill   Ilomidsditeh.     .So,  clean  and  fresh,  with 
Imely  fice  and  fragrant  llower.s,  IJhie-eyed 
Violet    became    a  ijreat  favorite   with  the 
gentlemen  who  passed  in  and   out  of  the 
Mansion    Ilonse,    scllin;,'   her   bouipiets  so 
re.idily,  that,  instead  of  being  an  extra  ex- 
pense to  Top,  she  rather  increased  his  small 
iucoiae. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

TIIK    OLD    8TOBY. 

Now  that  Violet  was  earning  money, 
Abel  was  not  contented  to  be  idle  any 
longer.  So  ho  gave  up  his  school,  his  dreamy 


'  wiinderln;{   round    St.  Paul'n  Churrdiyard, 

bis  iile.isimt  hours  at  the  riiling  of  Cliiist's 

llospiiiil,  iiinl  bis  w.ilks  to  and  fimn 
j  the  Mansion  House,  wliere  Violet  sat  on  the 

steps  like  II  little  ipieeii.  her  lap  full  of 
I  llowers,  and  her  bine  vyrs  sparkling  with 
I  pleasure   as    slxpenee    aller   nixpence    fell 

with  a  cheerful  ring    into  her  tin   money. 

l>OX.      All  llie<i,    dear    deli.^hts    Abel    ivli'ii. 

ipiished  to  p(»s<  his  lioiirs  from  seven  in 
llie  iiiornlug  until  wv«  n  at  ni.dit  in  the 
I'ountinjj-lioiise  of  Thiir|»  k  ^ii\,  sliip- 
ihanillers,  on  Lower  Thames  Street,  when) 
he  reicived  three  shillings  a  week  ll)r 
running  of  errands,  «wcepin.r,  dustiie,',  and 
makiii','  hiiMself  ;,'enerally  useful. 

.Mr.  Thor|)e,  who  was  the  only  one  now 
in  the  firm,  his  father  having  died  a  year 
belld-e,  was  a  pli  ts.nit.  kind-hearted  ;;entle- 
inaii.     I-'iom  the  day  when   Abel  had  first 
stood  before  lllli)   with  his  line  eyes  raised 
frankly  to  his  face,  he  iiad  been   tiivorably 
impressed  with  the  boy  ;  *o  lie  often  talked 
with  him  as  lie  passed  in  and  out  of  thk 
clerk's  odlee  where  he  was  always  busv,  nnd 
sometimes  he  siuit  fir  him  to  come  into  his 
own  private  room  to  receive  some  messaire, 
or  to  pertbrm  .soim^  little  .service.     In  this 
way  he  saw  considerable  of  Abel,  and  began 
to  feel  (piite  ,111  interest  in  him.     One  day, 
when  they  were  alone,  the  boy  .sorting  and 
arranging  his  pajicrs  with  defl  hand,  .Mr. 
Thorpe     (piestioned    him     about    him-elf. 
Thereupon  Abel  told  him  his  little  history 
with  such    winning    artlessuess    that    tho 
kind-hearted  merchant  could  scarce  restrain 
his  tears. 

"  So  you  really  wish  to  go  into  the  Blue- 
coat  School?"  he  .saiil,  when  Abel  toM  liim 
of  his  desire  and  disappointment.  '•  Well, 
my  lad,  you're  too  old  for  that  now  ;  but 
there's  nothing  to  prevent  your  .studying 
alone.  You  shall  have  all  the  books  you 
need.  Come  to  me  tor  what  you  want  :  I  will 
supply  you.  Devote  your  evenings,  in  fact, 
all  your  leisure  hours,  to  study;  and  ther(''s 
no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  become  an 
educated  man.  After  all,  the  will's  what's 
required.  Be  attentive,  <liligent,  and  honest 
in  your  work  ;  and  you  shall  remain  with  mo 


wsii^S*^'" "" ' 


'^''iS^J.'m.i!i!&>,!kV?'fiiJ^;,>5^i^^;; 


^a^^:,:^:-^'^J,,i;Ja^i^g^;-;^;.,;;a!a--.,^^^Ki^tl..t.^',viW:^ 


20 


BOPES  OF  SAND. 


Il 


ir 


as  lon<^  as  you  wisli,  and  bo  promottnl  as 
you  deserve.  Now,  my  boy,  you  have  your 
fortune  in  your  han.ls  ;  only  be  industrious 
and  faithful  to  my  interests,  and  you  -hall 
never  ne(<l  a  friend."  Then  he  told  him, 
with  a  fother'.s  fond  pride,  that  he  had  a  son 
at  Eton  who  was  nearly  seventeen,  and  that 
when  ho  linished  his  eoUeglatc  course  he 
would  enter  the  counting-house,  .and  a.'Ver- 
wards  become  his  partner;  so  that  the  stylo 
of  the  firm  might  remain  Thorpe  &  Son, 
as  it  had  been  for  more  than  a  century. 

All  these  promises  .and  little  confidences 
dcli'dited  Abel,  who  studied  to  please  his 
employer  in  every  way.     He  was  always  on 
the  alert  to  do  any  thing  that  was  nee.led; 
early  and  late  at  his  post,  watchful,  quick, 
and  careful,   ready   to   lend  his  hand  to 
assist  any  one,  whether  in  his  department 
or  not;  s^howing  remarkable  skill  and  in- 
tclli"encc  (or  one  so  young.     Years  after, 
ho  looked  back  on  these  days  as  the  happi- 
est of  his  life ;  for  his  troubles  had  not  then 
bcTun.   When  his  work  was  done,  and  well 
done,  he  would  hasten  to  his  humble  home, 
with  a  step  that  was  never  weary,  and  a 
heart  that  was  never  anxious,  carrying  with 
him  some  new  books,  a  ribbon  for  Violet, 
some  little  rUl  for  Top.  or  a  dainty  for  their 
simple   supper.     How  they  enjoyed   that 
meal!    the   three   seated  round  the   pine 
table.  Top  as  much  a  chiM  as  either  of 
them,  laughing   with   delight    at   Violet's 
lively  description  of  some  little  adventure, 
counting  with  eager  pleasure  the  proceeds 
of  her  day's  sales,  planning  for  a  new  Irock 
or  hat  with  as  much  interest  as   the   girl 
herself,  or   listening   attentively  to   Abel's 
account  of  his  work,  his  friends,  his  con- 
versation with  llv.  Thorpe,  his  ardent  boy- 
ish plans  and  expectations,  beautiful  with 
the  -low  of  youth  and  hope.     These  were 
moments  in  the  old  man's  life  that  left  him 
nod.in  '  to  desire  or  regret.     Instead  ot  one 
child,  he  had  two  ;  for  Violet  was  very  fond 
of  him,  and  had  given  him  no  trouble  :  so 
llvr,  she  had  been  a  good  girl,  had  kept  her- 
self neat  and  clean,  and  had  assisted  Top 
about  his   household   affairs  willingly  and 
skilfully.     Every  morning  she  went  to  sell 


I  her  flowers  on  the  steps  of  the  Mansion 
'  House ;   and  every  .:vening  she  returned 
cheerfullv,  with  a  merry  he.art  and  light 
step,  to  give  old  Top  the  proceeds  of  her 
day's  sales,  which  he  carefully  adde.l  to  a 
little  fund  he  was  saving  for  her  i'uture 
needs.     So  Violet  had  nothing  to  comp.ain 
of:  she  was  well  fed,  well  clothed,  clean, 
and  healthy ;  she  ha.l  almost  Ibrgotten  her 
piist  life  and  old  Mother  Flint;  and  there 
was  not  a  happier  llower-girl  in  all  London 
than  she ;  and,  besides  all  her  other  bless- 
ings, Abel  was  teaching  her  how  to  read 
and  write,  and  how  to  bo  good.    The  boy 
was  a  guanlian  angel,  who  stood  between 
her  and  evil ;  and  old  Top  was  her  faithtu 
mentor,  who  never  failed  to  point  a  moral 
from  the  wretched  girls  and  women  who 
filled  the  tenements  around  them.     "  Look 
at  her,  Vi'let,"  ho  would  siiy,  referring  to 
some  poor  sinner  who  was  reaping  the  bit- 
ter  harvest  of  her  folly,  "1  can  remember 
her  when  she  was  young,  an'  as  lov'ly  as  a 
flower,  with  blue  eyes  like  yours,  an'  cheeks 
as  red  as  .laraask  roses  I  but  she  was  vam 
an' idle,  an' went  wrong.    Dear  Lord  1  sec 
her  now  I  what  a  wreck  she  is !  an'  it  s  the 
way  you'll  look  if  you  ever  follow  in  her 
steps;  mind  what  me  an'  Abel  say  to  you; 
keep  tidy  an'  modest,  an'  tend  to  your  work 
an'  books,  an-  one  o'  these  days,  who  knows, 
p'rhaps  you'll  be  mistress  o'  your  own  house, 
with  a  husband  an'  a  baby  that  you'll  be 
as  fond  of  as  I  was  o'  mine  when  he  was  a 

wee  thing." 

In  a  year  Abel  had  become  so  useful  to 
Mr.  Thorpe,  that  he  increased  his  wages, 
and  allowed  him  many  favors  unusual  to  a 
1  boy  in  his  position.     The  money  he  earned 
seemed  a  small  fortune  to  Top,  who  hoarded 
it  carefully,  to  the  end  that  his  chil-l,  who 
was  Trowing  tall  and  large,  might  bo  better 
clothed ;  for  he  could  no  longer  wear  the 
little  patched  jackets  and  trousers  which  the 
old  man  picked  up  for  him  in  lloun.lsditch. 
Top  was  delighte<l  when  he  saw  him  ar- 
rayed for  the  first  time  in  an  entire  now 
suit,  coarse  and  plain,  to  be  sur3,  but  well 
cut,  and  well  made ;   and   Violet  daneed 
around  him,  like  a  bewildered  sprite,  clap- 


t^iwtssttawi'g'ew*!"  »»"■*' 


asjjateisaatsggsStr' 


3f  tlio  Mansion 
c  she  retiirneil 
heart  and  liglit 
proce(!ils  of  her 
ully  added  to  a 
fur  her  i'uturo 
jing  to  conii»iain 
I  elothi'd,  clean, 
»st  forj^otten  her 
^Unt;  and  there 
irl  in  all  London 
her  other  bless- 
ler  how  to  read 
good.     The  boy 

0  stood  between 
was  her  faithful 

to  point  a  moral 

and  women  who 

d  them.     "  Look 

say,  referrhij;  to 

reaping  the  bit- 

1  can  remember 

an'  as  lov'ly  as  a 

yours,  an'  cheeks 

but  she  was  vain 

Dear  Lord  1  see 

he  is  !  an'  it's  tlie 

ver  follow  in  her 

Abel  say  to  you ; 

tend  to  your  work 

■  days,  wlio  knows, 

o'  your  own  house, 

iby  that  you'll  be 

ine  when  he  was  a 

jcome  so  useful  to 
:reased  his  wages, 
favors  unusual  '.o  a 
e  money  he  earned 
)  Top,  who  hoarded 
that  his  child,  who 
■"e,  might  be  better 
10  longer  wear  the 

1  trousers  which  the 
im  in  lloundsditch. 
jn  he  saw  him  ar- 

in  an  entire  new 
to  bo  sura,  but  well 
ind  Violet  daneed 
ildered  sprite,  clap- 


THE  OLD  STORY. 


21 


ping  her  hands,  laughing,  and  telling  him 
that  he  was  "a  deal  ban'souier  'an  the 
Prince  o'  Wales." 

It  was  on  a  Sunday,  when  Abel  wore  his 
fine  clothes  for  the  first  time,  and  Violet 
had  a  new  cambric  frock,  and  a  pretty  straw 
hat  with  a  blue  ribbon.  Like  all  girls  of 
that  age,  she  was  anxious  to  display  them  : 
therefore,  she  clamored  to  be  taken  some- 
where ;  and  Abel  joined  her,  crying  at  the 
same  time  with  her,  "  Take  us  somewhere, 
daddy :  take  us  somewhere." 

"  I  would  willin'ly,  children  ;  but  I  ain't 
fine  enough  to  go  out  with  you,  I  ain't," 
said  Top,  looking  at  himself  ruefully.  "  I've 
got  only  my  old  patched  duds,  that  ain't 
fit  company  for  these  new  things." 

"  O  daildy  I  don't  say  that,"  cried  Aljcl, 
bringing  forward  the  old  man's  best  jacket 
and  cap ;  while  Violet  tied  his  neckerchief 
into  a  smart  bow.  *'  You're  always  nice 
enough.  We're  proud  of  you  any  way ; 
ain't  we,  Violet  V  " 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  don't  mind,  an'  if 
you  ain't  'shamed  o'  your  old  daddy,  I'll  go 
along  an'  take  you  both  to  the  Tower. 
Have  you  ever  seen  the  Tower  o'  London, 
Vi'let  V  " 

"No,  no,  daddy,  I  never  have.  I've 
never  seen  only  the  outside,"  cried  the  girl 
eagerly.  "  Oh,  oh !  won't  it  be  jolly  to  see 
the  inside  1  " 

"  An'  Abel'll  tell  us  all  about  it,  'cause 
he  knows  history,"  said  Top  proudly. 

"  Yes :  Abel'll  tell  us,"  echoed  Violet, 
as  they  set  out  on  each  side  of  the  quaint 
old  man. 

It  was  a  bright  June  day,  for  there  are 
bright  days  in  London,  and  a  happy  day  for 
these  three  beings  who  envied  no  one. 
Violet  almost  laughed  under  the  noses  of 
the  warders,  who  were  so  important  in 
their  curious  costume;  but  when  they  en- 
tered the  Lion's  Gate,  she  became  suddenly 
grave,  and  clung  closely  to  Abel's  band. 
The  deep  moat,  the  gloomy  arches,  the 
warlike  towers,  frightened  her  a  little  ;  and 
her  great  blue  eyes  devoured  Abel,  while 
he  whispered,  "  This  is  the  Traitors'  Gate, 
where  prisoners,  brought  by  the  Thames, 


entered  never  to  go  out  again.  This  is  the 
Bell  Tower,  wl.>;re  Queen  Klizabeth  was 
imprisoned;  aud  this  is  the  Bloody  Tower, 
where  the  lit»le  Princes  were  murdered  by 
their  cruel  uncle." 

"  It  don't  look  very  wicked  now,"  whis- 
pered Top,  as  they  followed  the  warder 
into  a  room  where  the  portcullis  to  one  of 
the  inner  tower  gates  was  drawn  up,  un- 
used and  harmless  enough.  One  of  the  offi- 
cers lived  in  this  tower ;  his  wife  was  wash- 
ing dishes  on  a  table  near  the  massive  iron- 
barred  portcullis,  with  its  great  crank  and 
rusty  chain ;  some  scarlet  geraniums  blos- 
somed in  a  window  over  it ;  and  a  child 
played  on  the  floor  with  a  broken  painted 
soldier.  The  woman  was  singing  cheerfully 
when  they  entered ;  and  the  sun  shone 
bright  on  the  flowers,  and  touched  the  ojjpo- 
site  wall  with  a  patch  of  gold. 

"  It's  innocent  an '  peacefiil  enough  here 
now,"  said  Top  with  some  surprise.  "  I 
don't  b'lieve  its  true  that  all  them  wicked 
deeds  was  done  here." 

"  True  as  gospel,  my  man,"  returned  the 
warder,  as  be  stooped  to  pinch  the  baby's 
cheek. 

"  Will  you  let  us  look  under  the  stairs 
where  the  bones  of  the  little  Princes  were 
found  V  "  asked  Abel  of  the  pleasant-faced 
woman. 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  will,  ray  little  man,"  she 
replied,  kindly  patting  the  boy's  handsome 
bead.  Then  she  threw  a  tin  horse  to  the 
child  to  amuse  it  while  she  was  gone,  and 
led  the  way,  while  the  warder  stop[)ed  to 
take  a  drink  from  a  bright  pewter  mug. 

Violet  would  not  look  into  the  dark  hole  : 
she  disliked  dreary  places ;  and  her  face  was 
quite  pale  and  awestricken  when  Top  and 
Abel  joined  her  at  the  door. 

"  Goodness !  child,  you  needn't  be  afraid. 
There's  nothin'  there  but  an  old  closet,  an' 
some  pots  an'  pans,  common  enough  now, 
even  if  the  Princes  was  burled  there,  which 
I  don't  much  b'lieve,  seein'  as  no  one  can 
tell  correct  what  happened  so  long 
ago." 

The  armory  Interested  and  pleased  them 
all  much  better  than  did  the  Towers.    Violet 


,.»iiwii^.>i;;a:Hi3a^^a^^^i'      ~" 


'''«^4^r.sia^»,jit!a.gJSiwsasi 


^?-*'V.k.^i^i-^fr^;!:^^g3gjjiiif4^M-M^^JJ^^!»j^>*^^^'.w\M*' 


MWito 


•><> 


ROPES  OP  SAND. 


|t<' 


(•ln|)|(('<l  lior  Imnds  at  tho  linr?os  all  dressi'd 
in  till'  hiiglite'st  fti'cl,  tliinkin:;  at  first  that 
they  were  real  animals  tliat  would  praiicf 
and  jiaw  if  those  iirim  wai'i-iofs,  also  in  shin- 
in.;  ariniir,  did  not  hold  thcni  so  ti;j;ht]y. 
TluMi  slio  wished  that  all  theso  (jiiiet  figiiros 
and  iiroiid-lookin<i  char^jers  would  suddenly 
eonu-  to  lil'e,  and  rush  at  each  oilier  with 
their  laiiees  tilted,  and  their  searlet  and 
white  plinnes  wavinj;loand  fro.  And  what 
ii'  all  these  gilded  banners  and  badges  and 
])ennons  should  tlutterand  (loat  in  tlie  wind, 
and  the  swords  should  elasli,  and  the  can- 
nons roar,  and  these  brazen-mouthed  triun- 
pots  shoidd  ring  out  their  loudest  jieals  ? 
So  absorbed  was  she  in  thinking  of  ail  this, 
that  she  scarcely  heard  Abel  tell  her  she 
must  walk  faster,  as  the  warder  w;\s  impa- 
tient at  her  lagiring  steps.  Although  she 
was  delighted  with  the  armory,  she  thought 
the  jewel-house  the  most  beautiful  of  all. 
The  crowns  and  the  royal  sceptre  with  the 
cross  of  gold,  the  rubies,  emeralds,  and 
diamonds,  the  rodofeipiity  with  the  golden 
dove,  and  the  orb  baniled  with  ])recious 
stones,  all  these  made  her  eyes  sparkle  and 
her  cheeks  glow.  She  loved  bcautitiil 
things  ;  and  she  showed  her  love  so  strongly, 
that  Top  would  not  allow  her  to  remain  to 
hxik  at  I  hem  as  long  as  she  wished. 

"  They're  only  temptations  o'  Satan,"  he 
said,  "  to  lead  the  poor  astray.  You  mustn't 
love  jewels,  chihl ;  if  you  do,  they  '11  bo  your 
ruin.  Many  a  girl  has  lost  her  soul  for  one 
o'  them  sparklin'  things.  Don't  love  'em, 
don't  covet  'em,  don't  think  nothin'  about 
'em." 

Abel  could  not  help  looking  at  them  nny 
more  than  Violet  could  ;  for  he  was  saying 
to  himselti  "  Her  eyes  are  as  blue  as  the 
pajiphires,  her  teeth  as  white  as  the  pearls, 
her  lips  as  red  as  the  rubies;  and,  while  we 
have  her,  wc  needn't  envy  tho  queen  her 
jewels." 

Tlicy  were  both  unwilling  to  go,  and 
lingered  a  little  as  Top  led  them  away  :  then 
the  old  man,  fearing  that  he  had  deprived 
them  of  a  pleasure,  began  to  blame  the 
warder  to  excuse  himself.  "  They  al'ays  do 
hurry  so,"  he  said,  when  they  were  outside 


the  gate.  "  Wc  ain't  seen  half  our  money's 
worth,  have  we  V  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  have,  dixody  I  "  cried  Vio- 
let cxciti  dly  :  "them  bcautitul  jewels  is 
enough  for  one  day.  O  Lor  ' !  how  I  should 
like  to  liave  a  brooch  as  big  as  that  biyrest 
oiie  that  sparkled  so." 

"  Hush,  husli,  Vi'let,"  said  Top  sternly, 
"  don't  go  to  admirin'  jewels  ;  if  you  do, 
you'll  soon  learn  t'adniiro  sin  :  don't  think 
o'  finery  if  you  want  to  be  a  virtuous,  happy 
girl." 

"  I  only  like  them  'cause  they're  pretty, 
that's  all,  dad<ly,"  returned  Violet,  glancing 
slyly  at  Abel,  who  was  walking  thoughttiilly 
at  her  side. 

"  You're  not  ponderin'  on  'em,  are  you,  my 
boy  V  "  (juestioned  Top  anxiously. 

''  No.  no,  daddy  !  I  wasn't  thinking  of 
them  at  all.  It  was  something  (juite  dilfer- 
ent:  I  was  thinking  that  I  should  be  con- 
tented to  be  poor  and  humble,  if  I  only 
might  be  happy  an<l  peaceful  all  my  lilc. 
If  I  could,  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  rich  and 
great,  and  miss  being  happy." 

"  You're  a  g(xjd  boy,  Abel :  you're  al'ays 
thinkin'  o'  somethin'  good,"  said  Top 
approvingly ;  '•  an'  so  you  can't  fail  to  bo 
happy.  You've  got  a  fair  prospect  before 
you  ;  an'  you'll  be  a  blessin'  to  every  one, 
'specially  your  old  daddy." 

'■  But  don't  you  b'lieve  that  every  one 
that's  ricjj  is  happy  ?  "  questioned  Violet 
with  unusual  thoughtfulness.  "  Seems  to 
me,  if  I  liad  silk  frocks  and  pretty  jewels 
I'll  be  awful  happy." 

"  O  Vi'let,  Vi'let  I  I'm  sorry,  I  am,  to  hear 
you  say  that.  It's  only  good  jieople  that's 
happy,"  replied  Top  severely.  "  You  never 
can  have  silk  an'  jewels  honest,  never ;  an' 
if  you  get  'em  any  other  way  you'll  come  to 
dreadful  misery." 

The  girl  opened  her  great  blue  eyes,  and 
smiled  a  little  disdainfully,  but  said  nothing.; 
(or  the  jewels  seemed  to  Hash  belbre  her, 
and  the  silken  embroidered  braners  to 
float  in  the  air  around  her.  From  that 
day  a  new  passion  took  possession  of  her 
heart.  She  thought  constantly  of  silks 
and  jewels,  and  looked  with  silent  contempt 


«■.  I'MJ-m'm  ,^»MlW^inm',-■.,^■-^iW«Mffel'  .'.»(i.ilti!(>iB.'»BMfe^ 


LOST. 


23 


half 


our  money  8 


'dy !  "  crii'il  Vio- 
aiiiit'iil  jewels  is 
jr  ' !  liow  I  (ilioiild 
ig  as  that  bigrest 

laid  Top   sternly, 

ivels ;  it'  you  <lo, 

sin  :  don't  think 

a  virtuous,  happy 

«o  they're  pretty, 
I  Violet,  iflaiieiiig 
king  thoughtt'uUy 

n  'em,  are  you,  my 
xiously. 

asn't  thinking  of 
thing  (jnitu  diller- 
I  should  be  eon- 
umljle,  if  I  only 
eeful  all  my  lile. 
ce  to  be  rich  and 
)y." 

bel :  you're  al'ays 
;ond,"  said  Top 
can't  fail  to  be 
r  prospect  before 
isin'  to  every  one, 

c  that  every  ona 
rjuestioued  Violet 
less.  "  Seems  to 
ind  pretty  jewels 

srry,  I  am,  to  hear 
ood  jieople  that's 
siy.  "  You  never 
onest,  never ;  an' 
'ay  you'll  come  to 

eat  blue  eyes,  and 
,  but  said  nothing.; 
iiash  betbre  her, 
iered  bamners  to 
her.  From  tlvat 
possession  of  her 
nstantly  of  silks 
th  silent  contempt 


on  the  plain  clothes  Top  bought  for  her. 
She  never  saw  an  elegantly  dressed  lady 
pass  in  her  carriage  but  she  envied  her, 
and  wished  that  she  could  have  the  same. 
Still  she  breatheil  no  word  of  her  discon- 
tent to  Abel,  who  loved  her  more  and  more 
as  time  passed  away.  During  the  still 
happy  ye.irs  of  their  childhood.  To]),  liking 
to  make  them  happy,  otlcn  took  them  on 
little  excursions.  In  the  winter  they  went 
to  the  liritish  Museum,  to  Kensington,  and 
the  National  Gallery,  —  for  this  poor  old 
man  was  naturally  refined  and  intelligent, 
enjoying  even  what  ho  did  not  understand ; 
and  in  the  summer,  to  Windsor,  to  Ilamj)- 
ton  Court  by  the  Thames,  to  Kew  Gardens, 
to  Greenwich,  and  to  many  other  suburban 
resorts.  Often  in  the  long  twilights  of 
spring,  they  took  an  omnibus  and  rode  to 
Hyde  Park,  where  they  wandered  about  at 
will  among  the  crowd  of  pleasure-seekers. 
There  Violet  saw  much  to  strengthen  her 
love  for  finery  and  showy  attire.  In  the 
innocence  of  her  heart  she  envied  the  guilty 
women  who  flaunted  in  robes  of  shame,  not 
knowing  at  what  a  ruinous  price  they  liad 
bought  them.  Ollen  when  Top  and  Abel 
thought  hei*  perfectly  contented  and  happy, 
she  was  making  comparisons,  complain- 
ing silently  of  her  hard  lot  in  life,  and  wish- 
ing she  were  oliler,  tliat  she  might  earn 
money  enough  to  buy  handsomer  dresses. 

Almost  before  old  Top  was  aware  of  it, 
his  children  were  no  longer  children  :  for 
Violet  was  sixteen,  and  Abel  eighteen. 
Tlic  boy  had  gone  on  steadily  improving  in 
knowledge  and  goodness,  having  been  pro- 
moted from  one  position  to  another,  until 
he  was  now  Mr.  Thorpe's  private  secretary, 
with  a  salary  of  forty  pounds  a  year.  Vio- 
let still  sold  her  flowers  on  the  steps  of  the 
Mansion  House,  a  neat,  graceful  girl,  whose 
blue  eyes  and  lovely  face  attracted  far  too 
much  attention ;  yet  her  innocence  and 
youth  had  jirotected  her  till  now,  and  Abel's 
love  and  watchful  care  left  her  little  to  fear 
in  the  future. 

Old  Top  still  continued  to  live  in  his 
cellar,  and  carry  his  sand  to  his  customers 
as  usual.     Though  he  was  very  feeble  now, 


[  and  tottered  pitifully,  nothing  could  induce 
him  to  leave  a  jdace  that  had  been  his 
I  home  for  so  many  years ;  but  he  liad  hired 
the  floor  above,  and  now  had  a  little  parlor 
and  two  sleeping-rooms,  one  of  which 
Violet  had  occupied  for  some  lime,  ^lother 
Birch  having  dropped  olf  suddenly  about 
i  the  time  of  Aiiel's  first  promotion.  They 
i  were  a  very  happy  little  family,  an<l  the 
i  old  man  w.as  more  than  contented  with  his 
lot.  Sometimes,  in  thinking  of  all  his  bless- 
ings, bis  heart  would  soften  until  the  tears 
would  run  down  his  cheeks,  and  he  would 
s.ay  in  a  voice  of  reverential  gratitude,  ad- 
dressing himself  after  his  old  habit,  '•  Top, 
you've  never  deserved  half  you've  got.  The 
Lord's  been  too  good  to  you  to  give  you  two 
such  children,  an'  four  rooms  to  live  in,  an' 
such  a  blessin'  in  Abel.  If  that  poor  cre- 
tur'  coulil  see  her  boy  now,  wouldn't  she 
rejoice  over  him,  he's  so  good,  and  such  a 
gentleman  !  An'  Vi'let,  too,  that'll  be  his 
wife  some  day,  he  couldn't  find  a  better  nor 
a  fairer  in  all  London." 

So,  while  Top  was  rejoicing  over  his  own 
happiness,  and  the  pleasant  future  of  his 
children,  Abel  and  Violet  were  rehearsing 
the  first  chapter  of  that  sweet  old  story 
that  nearly  all  who  have  lived  have  lis- 
tened to  in  the  glowing  morning  of  youth 
and  hope. 


CHAPTER  V. 


LOST. 


'  "  Isn't  that  beautifnl  ?  isn't  that  perfect  ? 
Won't  you  buy  it  for  nie?  I  should  so  like 
to  have  it  1 "  said  Violet,  looking  into  Abel's 
face  with  real  entreaty  in  her  lovely  eyes. 
"  I  haven't  a  single  pretty  thing  ;  and  that 
is  so  pretty  1  " 

They  stood  before  a  jeweller's  window  in 
the  Strand ;  and  the  object  which  she  so 
much  coveted  was  a  flashy  brooch  of  fiilso 
diamonils  and  emeralds,  marked,  "  Only  one 
crown." 

"  Buy  that  for  you,  Violet  ?    Why,  it's 


Mmi\  iv  irtmiiaaiBS*"' 


,M^St}&m^kSHiimmi".tmfm'Smii'j'> 


AV,iit'iiiftpyjai»iht''s»mw:j,?jfe^iug,iM^li<j^<j'-# 


iiHi 


24 


B0PE8  OF  SAND. 


Ihti 

i 

1 


HI 
'I 

ill 


m 


E  III 


only  jjlass  and  pincbbeck,"  replied  Abel, 
laujjliin^. 

"  1  don't  care  if  it  is  :  it's  lovely,  and  you 
might  buy  it  for  me." 

"  My  dear  Violet,  you  know  I  bate  to 
refuse  you  any  tbinjr,"  said  Abel,  gently 
pre8sin<r  tbe  band  tbat  lay  on  bis  arm ; 
"  but  be  reasonable,  and  don't  ask  for  what 
is  ini|K)ssible.  In  the  first  place,  even  if  it 
wasn't  a  waste  of  money  to  buy  it,  it's  not 
a  suitable  thing  for  you  to  have.  Tliink 
of  the  folly  of  your  wearing  such  an  orna- 
ment as  tbat  in  your  present  position. 
One  of  these  days,  when  you're  my  dear 
little  wife,  and  I  have  a  salary  of  perbaps 
two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  you  shall  have 
a  brooi'h  of  real  gold  ;  but  now,  pray  don't 
ask  for  such  a  bauble :  it  would  add 
nothing  to  your  beauty." 

"  Indeed  it  would,"  returned  Violet,  pout- 
ing and  tearful.  "  I'd  look  ever  so  much 
better  if  I  bad  that  to  fasten  my  collar  in- 
stead of  this  ugly  bow.  If  you  really  loved 
me  as  much  as  you  siiy  you  do,  you  would 
not  refuse  me  such  a  little  thing." 

"  Don't  say  tbat,  dear,"  cried  Abel,  with 
a  troubled  glance  at  the  pretty,  clouded 
i'ace  at  his  side  :  "  I  give  you  all  I  can.  I'd 
willingly  give  you  more  if  I  couhl ;  but  we 
must  save  our  money,  and  be  very  prudent, 
tbat  in  a  year  we  can  furnish  rooms  in  a 
more  respectable  locality  than  Black-cat 
Lane.  Then,  dear  old  daddy  mustn't  work 
any  longer.  lie  is  very  feeble,  and  we 
must  support  him  comfortably  as  long  as 
be  lives.  He  has  done  so  much  for  us,  that 
we  can  never  half  repay  hiui." 

"  I  know  it,  Abel :  he's  been  good,  and 
we'll  do  every  thing  to  make  him  happy  ; 
but  still,  I  do  want  tbat  brooch  awfully." 

"  Don't  look  at  tbe  worthless  thing  any 
longer.  Forget  such  follies,  and  be  liappy 
with  what  you  have,"  said  Abel  a  little 
sternly,  as  he  drew  tbe  reluctant  girl  away 
from  tbe  show  window  with  its  false  glare 
and  glitter. 

"  Why  don't  you  ever  take  me  to  a  play  ?  " 
persisted  Violet.  "  Other  young  people,  no 
better  off  than  we  are,  go  sometimes." 

"  I  dou't  take  you  because  I  don't  think 


it  best,  in  our  position,  to  indulge  in  such 
useless  expense  ;  besides,  it  promotes  a  taste 
for  pleasure  that  is  ruinous  to  sober  con- 
tentment." 

"I  can't  see  any  barm  in  being  happy 
once  in  a  while." 

"  Happy  once  in  a  while  !  But  ain't  you 
always  happy  witli  me,  Violet  V  "  qi^estioned 
Abel  sadly  and  anxiously. 

"I  am  happy  enough,  I  suppose,"  re- 
turned tbe  girl.  "  But  every  one  wants  a 
change  now  and  then." 

"  Well,  we  often  have  a  change.  Didn't 
we  go  to  Battersea,  and  pass  a  delightful 
dav,  last  week  ?  d<jn't  we  take  charming 
walks  in  tbe  parks?  don't  we  go  to  free 
lectures  and  concerts  ?  and  don't  we  have 
plenty  of  books  to  read  together  ?  How  can 
we  be  happier  than  we  are  ?  We're  young 
and  healthy,  and  have  enough  for  our  sim- 
ple wants :  then,  why  wish  for  what  wo 
can't  have  Y  " 

"I'm  glad  if  you're  contented,"  replied 
the  girl  fretfully ;  "  but  I'm  not.  It's  no  use. 
I  may  as  well  tell  you  tbe  truth  :  I  do  like 
fine  things.  I  should  like  to  be  rich,  and 
ride  in  the  park,  and  go  to  plays ;  to  dance 
and  sing ;  to  have  gay  company  around  me, 
and  —  and  "  — 

"  No  more,  Violet  I  that's  enough  I  "  cried 
the  young  man  sternly.  "I  know  what  you 
would  say :  that  you're  not  8atis(fied  with  the 
life  I  ofl'er  you.  In  Heaven's  name,  think 
what  you  are  saying  1  and,  if  you  have  such 
foolish  desires,  keep  them  in  your  own 
heart,  and  smother  and  kill  them  there ; 
tor  they  never  can  bo  gratified  lawfully. 
Don't  pain  me,  don't  pain  the  good  old 
man  who  has  done  so  much  for  you,  by 
giving  expression  to  them." 

''  O  Abel  I  you're  so  cross,  so  awful 
cross  and  unreasonable  1 "  returned  Violet 
pettishly.  "  You  know  I  love  you  dearly, 
and  Daddy  Top  too;  still  I  can't  help  it  if  I 
like  pretty  things  :  but  dou't  look  no,  don't 
speak  so,  and  I  won't  mention  it  again." 

Abel's  heart  softened  directly  when  she 
raised  her  beautiful  eyes,  full  of  tears,  to 
his  face  with  a  timid,  imploring  glance. 
They  were  iu  tbe  street,  but  it  Wiw  eveu- 


II  J) ».  v!\-^»*wmaiH'J  u  .!.m  w 


\it)ft!  ■»?»:  .m  '.v%.i!--Jt/:iis.':t^':'-WM>Mm'-ii^JM«imm 


I.UII  II J  miiUBII iiB|M«lSiii|il,>JJ«l#iaS-ltf!ifc   • 


in(lul<;c  in  8iieh 
t  pruinutu!*  u  tasto 
(US  to  sober  con- 


1  in  buing  liappy 

D  !  But  ain't  you 
)let  V  "  qiK'stioned 

,  I  suppoM',"  re- 
cry  one  wants  a 

change.  Didn't 
pass  a  delightful 
a  take  charming 
't  wo  go  to  Tree 
id  don't  we  have 
;ether  ?  How  can 
?  We're  young 
)ugh  for  our  sim- 
lish  for  what  we 

itented,"  replied 
1  not.  It's  no  use. 
truth  :  I  do  like 
I  to  be  rich,  and 
9  plays  ;  to  dance 
apai.y  around  me, 

's  enough  !  "  cried 
I  know  what  you 
;  satis^fied  with  the 
ren's  name,  think 
,  if  you  have  such 
m  in  your  own 
kill  them  there ; 
ratified  lawfully, 
tin  the  good  old 
iiuch  for  you,  by 

Q." 

cross,  so  awful 
"  returned  Violet 
[  love  you  dearly, 
I  can't  help  it  if  I 
n't  look  so,  don't 
ition  it  again." 
irectly  when  she 
!,  fidl  of  tears,  to 
mploring  glance. 
,  but  it  Wi»a  even- 


LG3T. 


25 


lag,  and  no  one  was  near;  so  he  put 
his  arm  round  her,  and  kissed  her  fondly. 
Atler  that  they  walked  on  in  silence.  At  the 
entrance  into  Ludgate  Street,  they  were 
met  by  a  wretched  looking  man,  who  held 
out  the  stumps  of  both  arms,  and  asked  (or 
charity  in  a  voice  of  pitiful  entreaty. 
There  was  an  expression  in  his  mournful 
face  that  Abel  could  not  resist;  so  he 
stopped,  spoke  kindly  to  him,  and  gave 
him  a  shilling. 

"  There,"  said  Violet,  when  they  were 
out  of  hearing,  "  you  gave  that  beggar  a 
shilling  ;  but  you  would  not  buy  the  brooch 
for  me.  You  are  so  generous  to  every 
one  else." 

"  What !  complaining  again  ?  remember 
the  promise  you  just  made  me." 

"  Ah  !  I  forgot :  I  will  remember  it.  For- 
give me,  Abel ;  you're  better  than  I  am," 
replied  the  girl  penitently. 

When  they  reached  home,  they  found 
the  lamp  burning  on  the  table,  and  their 
books  laid  ready  for  them ;  for  it  was  a 
rule  with  Abel  never  to  go  to  bed  until  he 
had  read  something  useful.  Top  had  re- 
tired for  the  night,  but  called  to  them  from 
his  little  room  to  say  that  they  would  find 
some  currant-buns  in  the  closet  for  their 
supper. 

"  How  thoughtful  he  always  is  I "  said 
Abel  with  a  tender  smile.  "  How  much  we 
shall  have  to  do  for  him  to  repay  him  for 
all  his  loving  care  !  " 

Violet  made  no  reply,  but  silently  laid 
aside  her  hat  and  shawl. 
"  Shall  we  read  a  chapter  of  The  Heart  of 
Mid-Lothian,'  before  we  go  to  bed  ?  "  ques- 
tioned Abel,  drawing  a  chair  near  to  the 
table. 

"No:  I  don't  want  to  read  to-night," 
replied  the  girl,  twisting  a  curl  of  her  sod 
brown  hair  idly  round  her  finger. 

"  Are  you  vexed  with  me,  Violet,  dear  ?  " 
said  Abel  at  length. 

"  Vexed  ?  Oh,  no  I  I  was  only  thinking." 

"Of  what'/" 

"  Never  mind  :  I  sha'n't  tell  you ;  because, 
if  I  do,  you'll  only  be  cross  and  scold  me. 
I'm  sleepy  and  tired,  so  I'll  go  to  bed ; " 


and,  stooping  overiiim,  she  touched  her  lips 
lightly  to  his  forehead,  and  they  parted  for 
the  night. 

I^ng  afler  Violet  retired,  Abel  sat  at  the 
little  table  with  "The  Heart  of  Mid- Lo- 
thian "open  before  him.  But  he  was  not  read- 
ing :  he  was  thinking  deeply ;  and  more  than 
once  a  silent  tear  rolled  down  his  face, 
and  fell  unnoticed  on  the  pages  of  the 
book.  Tlie  next  morning  ho  awoke  with 
an  unaccountable  depression  at  his  heart, 
which  ho  carried  with  him  to  his  work. 
\Vhen  he  entered  the  ofli(;e,  Mr.  Thorpe 
met  him  at  the  door,  and  introduced  liiui  to 
his  son,  Mr.  Robert  Tliorpc.  The  young 
man  gave  his  hand  to  Abel  pleasantly 
and  frankly,  and  said,  that  he  was  glad 
to  have  a  companion  whom  his  father  re- 
spected so  highly;  that  they  were  to  be 
together  in  the  private  office ;  and  he  was 
sure  they  would  soon  be  good  friends. 

Abel  replied  simply  and  honestly,  that 
he  should  do  all  in  his  power  to  deserve  his 
esteem  and  confidence  ;  and  that  he  should 
be  happy  to  be  useful  to  him  in  any  way. 

"  Then  take  him  under  your  care,  and 
introduce  him  to  business  at  once ;  fur  I'm 
afraid  he's  an  idle  dog,  and  will  find  work 
here  rather  dull  afler  his  life  at  Eton,"  said 
Mr.  Thorpe  good-naturedly.  "Now  I'm 
going  to  Lloyd's  fo^'  an  hour ;  and  I'll  leave 
you  together  to  get  better  acquainted." 

When  Abel  was  alone  with  young  Mr. 
Thorpe,  he  studied  hiin  carefully ;  for  he 
had  seldom  seen  a  handsomer  face  and  fig- 
ure. He  had  a  broad,  white  forehead ;  light, 
curling  hair ;  brown  eyes,  womanly  sweet  in 
their  expression;  a  small  mouth,  with  full 
lips,  shaded  by  a  thin,  silken  mustache  ;  a 
short  chin  a  little  receding ;  round,  white 
throat ;  broad,  square  shoulders  ;  small  feet 
and  hands;  and  long,  well-shaped  limbs. 
Although  he  was  handsome,  as  Abel  saw  at 
a  glance,  still  there  was  something  wanting 
in  his  face  :  perhaps  it  was  strength,  perhaps 
it  was  truth.  His  countenance  was  like  an 
unfinished  sketch,  full  of  beauties,  and  full 
of  impisrfections.  "  He  is  indolent,"  thought 
Abel,  making  his  mental  estimation,  "  fond 
of  pleasure,  generous,  and  weak,  and  be 


MiMimiMnmsi.'Ug'.'Wtviimmif-^Af'^tj'm.' 


^6 


B0PE3  OP  SAND. 


will  disappoint  his  r,oo<\  father.  Still  1  know 
I  shall  become  attacheil  to  him  in  a  very  lit- 
tle while ;  and  before  a  year  I  shall  be 
readv  to  make  any  sacrifice  for  him." 

In'that,  Abel  had  jiid;j;ed  rightly  :  before  a 
month  he  was  devoted  to  youn-,'  Mr.  Thorpe  ; 
and,  before  a  year,  ho  loved  him  better  than 
any  one  besides  VioKit  and  Top.      And  tlie 
yoiin','  licntlemar.  i'ked  Aixd  in  a  !j;ood-na- 
tmvd,  patronizing  w.ay.     He  was  very  iilie, 
and  took  bi-.L  little  interest  in  his  father's 
business,  although  he  had  the  prosjiect  of  a 
partnership  after  the  first  year.    Mr.  Thorpe 
never  knew  how  careless  Mr.  Robert  wiw  ; 
for  lately,  being  in  bad  health,  he  spent  less 
of  his  time  in  his  oHice  than  formerly,  leav- 
a  great  [yart  of  his  work  to  his  son,  whom 
he"  wished    to    bo   thoroughly    aecimunted 
with  the  business  of  the  house  before   he 
represented  it  as  q.  partner.     But  Al)el  did 
the  work  of  both    manfully ;   never  com- 
plaining  if  he   was    overtaxed,   or   if    lie 
worked"  earlier  and  later  than    the  other 
clerks,  so  that  Mr.  Thorpe  sliouM  not  dis- 
cover liis  son's  unworthiuess. 

"It's  cursed  dry  work!"  young  Mr. 
Thorpe  would  say  sometimes,  yawning  over 
the  Imgc  i>iles  of  letters  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  open,  "  to  sit  here  hour  after  hour, 
bent  over  these  papers,  when  one  wants  to 
be  in  the  park  or  on  the  'J'liames." 

Often  he  would  come  in  late,  flushed  and 
excited  ;  and,  instead  of  taking  his  seat  at 
his  desk,  he  would  say,  "  Winter,  you  must 
look  over  the  letters  to-day.     I'm  off  to 
Regent's  for  a  game  of  cricket."     Per- 
haps it  would  be  the  match  of  "  Gentle- 
men" against"  Players," or  '•  Kent" against 
"  All  England,"  or  "  Eton  "  against  "  Har- 
row ;  "  and  he  was  an  inveterate  cricketer, 
and  could  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of 
being    present    at  every  popular  match. 
Then  ho   would  add,  as  he  hurried  away 
alter  selecting  his  own  private  letters,  "  If 
the  governor  couies,  don't  tell  where  Vm  ofl" 
to ;  "and,  if  there's  more  than  you  can  do, 
give  it  to  some  of  »'       "'bs '  in  the  outer 
office." 

After  he  was  gone,  Abel  would  tackle  his 
work  resolutely,  and  never  leave  his  post 


until  every  thing  was  completed,     lie  liked 
to  labor  hard ;  he  did  not  mind  being  over- 
tasked;   he  was    young  and   strong,  and 
withal,  very  ambitious,  and  anxious  that  his 
employer  should  fiml  him  useful  and  faithful. 
He  hail  often  boasted  that  he  never  was  tired 
in  all  his  lifij ;  that  at  night  he  was  as  fresh  as 
in  the  morning ;  that  he  could  work  like  a 
horse,  and  never  exhaust  his  strength  :  but 
now  there  were  times  when  he  liked  to  bo 
inactive  ;  when  his  daily  duties  seemed  to 
weigh  a  little  upon  him  ;  when  his  step  was 
not  so  elastic,  nor  his  heart  so  light.     Was 
it  weariness,  or  anxiety  V  He  did  not  know. 
Perhaps  it  was  disappointment ;  for  Violet 
was  very  strivngo  sometimes,  anil  ho  could 
not  always  find  an  excuso  for  her  caprices. 
Not  long  after  the  evening  when  he  had 
refused  to  buy  the  brooch  for  her  at  the 
Strand,  he  happened  to  be  near  the  Man- 
sion House,  returning  from  a  commission  for 
Mr.  Thorpe  ;  so  he  thought  ho  would  stop 
and  walk  home  with  her.    The  girl,  looking 
another  way,  did  not  sje  him  until  he  was 
close  beside  her ;  but  the  first  thing  ho  no- 
ticed, as  he   approached,  was   the  hateful 
gewgaw  that  ho  had  denied  her,  f\istened 
into  Uio  front  of  her  dress.     His  disappoint- 
ment, and  the  thought  that  she  should  buy 
it  in  spite  of  his   advice  to  the  contrary, 
wounded  him  so  deeply  that  he  could  scarce 
conceal  his  trouble.     The  moment  her  eyes 
fell  upon  Abel,  she  started  violently,  flushed 
crimson,  and,  hastily  tearing  out  the  offen- 
sive ornament,  she  tried  to  conceal  it  in  her 
pocket,  while  she  stammered  a  confused 
welcome. 

•'  Violet,  how  long  have  you  had  this 
thing  V"  said   Abel  severely,  intercepting 
her  hand  on  its  way  to  her  pocket. 
"  Three  days,"  she  stammei-ed. 
"Then,  why  have  I  never  seen  it  be- 
fore?" 

"  Because  —  because  —  I  don't  know  "  — 
"  No  equivocation  1  It's  a  little  thing,  but 
it  hurts  me  dreadfully.  You  know  I  didn't 
wish  you  to  have  it ;  yet  you  bought  it, 
and  concealed  the  fiict  from  mo.  Have  you 
worn  it  before  to-day  ?  " 
"Yes." 


- , ;.JMHMUlllumU •mmm<MMJ,M,.M)ILmlimMli;ar 


LOST. 


27 


plotcil.     lie  liked 
iniiiil  huiii;;  oviT- 
nnil   stron;;,  and 
il  anxious  that  his 
isft'iil  anil  faithful, 
lie  iR'vt-r  was  tired 
he  was  as  fresh  as 
soulil  work  like  a 
his  »tri'n;;th:  but 
leu  ho  likid  to  ho 
duties  seemed  to 
when  his  step  was 
irt  so  lij^ht.     Was 
lie  did  not  know. 
tmeiit;  for  Violet 
mes,  and  ho  could 
B  for  her  caprices. 
nin<^  when  ho  had 
L'h  for  her   at   tho 
be  near  the  Man- 
mi  a  commission  for 
^ht  he  would  stop 
The  f,'irl,  looking 
ij  him  until  he  was 

0  first  tiling  ho  no- 
1,  was  the  hateful 
mied  her,  listened 
IS.  His  disap])oint- 
hat  she  should  buy 
tx  to  the  contrary, 
that  he  could  scarce 
ho  moment  her  eyes 
ed  violently,  flushed 
vring  out  the  offen- 

1  to  conceal  it  in  her 
nmered  a  confused 

have  you  had  this 

verely,  intercepting 

her  pocket. 

;ammei'ed. 

;  never  seen  it  be- 

.  — I  don't  know"  — 
It's  a  little  thing,  but 
You  know  I  didn't 
;  yet  you  bought  it, 
from  mo.  Have  you 
?" 


"  Then,  you've  hidden  it  away  when  you 
came  home,  so  that  I  should  not  see 
it." 

"  I  was  afraid  that  you'd  bo  cross,  and 
that  D.iddy  Top  would  scold  me." 

"  And  so  you  deceive<l  us  both  V  " 

"I  didn't  deceive  you;  I  didn't  say  any 
tliiM'4  about  it,"  she  returned,  looking  at 
Abel  a  little  defiantly. 

"  Violet,  where  did  you  get  the  money 
to  buy  it  with  ?  You've  broui;ht  home  your 
usiiid  amount  every  night :  how,  then,  did 
you  get  a  crown  ?  " 

She  hesitated,  turning  ,)ale  and  crimson 
by  turns,  and  hanging  her  head  in  the 
dee]K'st  confusion. 

'•  Tell  me  :  where  did  you  get  it?  "  urged 
Abel  with  a  determination  to  know  all. 

"  A  young  gentleman  gave  mo  a  crown 
for  a  bouipiet." 

"  Why  did  he  give  you  a  crown  for  a 
boucpiet,  when  you  sell  them  for  sixpence 
each  Y  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"And  you  kept  it?"  questioned  Abul. 
his  eyes  fi.\ed  on  her  sternly,  and  his  face 
pale  with  anger. 

'•  Why,  he  wouldn't  take  it  back ;  so 
what  could  I  do  but  keep  it  ?  " 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  tell  me  qinck, 
what  did  he  say?"  cried  Abel,  almost 
beside  himself  with  jealousy,  which  lie  now 
felt  tor  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

"  How  can  I  tell  what  he  said  ?  I  don't 
just  remember." 

"  Tell  me  the  truth :  I  know  by  your 
face  that  you  remember  every  word." 

"  Well,  he  said  —  he  said  I  was  too 
pretty  to  sell  flowers." 

"  Was  that  all  ?  " 

'♦  Tho  last  time  he  said  that  I  ought  to 
he  dressed  like  a  lady,  and  have  nothing  to 
do,  instead  of  sitting  here  all  day." 

"Tho  villain  I  did  he  say  that?  Then 
you've  seen  him  more  than  once?  " 

"  Yes  :  he  passes  hero  every  day." 

"  And  stops  to  talk  with  you,  and  you 
listen  to  him  ?  " 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  he  always  buys  my 
flowers." 


"  What  sort  of  a  man  is  he  ?  Do  you 
know  his  name  ?  " 

"No:  how  should  I  know  his  name? 
He's  young  and  handsome,  lias  beautiful 
eyes,  and  wears  rings  and  chains,  lie's  a 
gentleman,  I'm  sure  of  that." 

"  Violet,  come  homo  with  lue  at  once," 
said  Abel,  (piivering  with  anger,  as  he  took 
her  by  the  arm,  and  led  her  away  rapidly. 
•'  Your  flowers  are  all  gone,  you'd  nothing 
more  to  sell :  what  were  you  waiting  there 
for?  Toll  me,  what  were  you  waiting 
(or  ?  " 

"  I  wasn't  waiting.  I  was  just  going 
when  you  came." 

"  O  Violet,  Violet !  how  wicked  you  are  t 
how  false  to  me  when  I  trusted  you  so  !  " 
and  Abel  trembled  so  that  ho  could  scarce 
speak. 

"  Let  me  alone  :  you're  real  cruel,  and 
you  hurt  my  arm  !  "  cried  the  girl,  wrench- 
ing herself  from  Abel's  tight  clasp.  "  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  to  bully  me  in  the 
street,  with  every  one  hearing :  I  say,  you 
ou'^ht  to  be  ashamed  1 "  And  she  burst  into 
a  fluoil  of  tears,  whieli  were  more  passionate 
than  [lenitent. 

"  Hush  I  For  God's  sake,  don't  say  I 
bullied  you  t  It  breaks  my  heart  to  speak 
cross  to  you ;  but  this  is  more  than  I  can 
boar.  Let  us  got  home  as  quickly  as  we 
can." 

«  And  you'll  tell  Daddy  Top?"  sobbed 
Violet. 

"  Yes  :  I'll  toll  him.  I  never  keep  any 
thing  from  him." 

"  And  he'll  abuse  me  too." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  unjust  ?  Has  he 
ever  abused  you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  he  will  if  you  set  him  on." 

"  Violet,  I  sha'n't  set  him  on :  I  shall 
tell  him  the  truth,  and  let  him  advise  us 
what  to  do  ;  for  you  can't  go  there  again." 

'•  Can't  go  there  again  I  then,  what  am  I 
to  do  ?  "  cried  the  girl,  tho  tears  dry  on  her 
hot  cheeks,  anil  her  eyes  wide  with  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Violet,  you're  my  promised  wife.  In 
less  than  nine  months  we're  to  bo  married  ; 
then  is  it  right  that  you  should  listen  to 


'   I 


28 


HOPES  OF  SAND. 


sucli  tftllt  ?  thiit  you  slioiilil  take  money 
from  stniii^ern  ?  You'ru  [wor ;  (jimI  knows 
■we're  all  poor  enough  ;  but  tliat's  no  reason 
wliy  we  can't  be  honest :  and  there  must  he 
no  secrets  between  us,  nor  no  »usj)ic'ion. 
You're  too  young,"  he  said,  soileninj^  as  he 
Idokeil  at  her,  "  ami  too  pretty,  dear,  to  he 
exjKJ.-ied  to  such  temptation.  You  can't  go 
there  agawj :  you  must  either  stay  home 
with  (hiddy,  or  find  sonic  other  occupation 
more  suitable  ibr  you." 

When  Top  saw  Abel  and  Violet  enter 
with  such  troubled  faces,  ho  knew  at  once 
that  something  was  wrong,  and  questioned 
theuj  anxiously,  Tlien  Abel,  trembling 
and  pidc,  told  the  cause  of  his  vexation ; 
while  Violet  sat  silent  and  sullen,  neither 
interrupting  him  nor  excusing  herself. 

The  poor  old  man's  face  clouded  sadly ; 
and,  looking  at  Abel  with  infinite  pity  and 
love, he  said  soothingly, "I'm  surprised  and 
soiry  ;  but  don't  take  it  too  serious,  my  boy. 
Vi'let's  only  thoughtless.  You're  thought- 
less, ain't  you,  Vi'let,  an'  not  wicked  Y 
An*  y(ju  won't  never  do  so  again  ?  It's 
the  first  time  you've  gone  wrong,  an'  I'll 
venture  to  say  it'll  be  the  last.  It'll  be  the 
last,  won't  it  ?  Why  don't  you  speak,  an' 
answer  me  ?  "  he  said  a  little  impatiently, 
as  he  waited  for  a  reply. 

"What's  the  use  of  my  speaking  when 
you're  both  against  me  V  " 

"  We're  not  against  you,  my  girl,"  re- 
turned Top  severely  ;  "  don't  go  to  havin' 
that  talk.  Me  an*  Abel's  your  best 
friends  in  the  world.  I'm  your  lather,  in  a 
manner ;  an'  Abel's  to  bo  your  husband  in 
less  'an  a  year,  if  you  behave  yourself. 
Then,  how  in  the  world  can  we  bo  against 
you  ?  liemember  what  I  told  you  long  ago 
that  a  love  'o  finery  would  lead  to  ruin.  An' 
the  flattery  an'  fine  words  o'  these  dandy 
jackanapes  is  a  curse  an'  a  blight,  a  livin' 
blight,  that'll  blacken  an'  wither  the 
sweetest  flower  as  ever  blossomeil.  Good 
God,  girl  1  ain't  1  seen  'euj  V  'ain't  I  knowed 
things  as  'd  make  your  heart  ache 
bitter  enough  ?  "  and  he  glanced  compas- 
sionately at  Abel,  who  sat  with  his  face  cov- 
ered, weeping  silently.     "  I  once  heard  a 


poor,  dyin'  crctur'  deplorin'  her  evil  ways. 
She  was  an  outcast.  She'd  hail  no  bed  tor 
months  but  Loudon  mud ;  she  was  notliin' 
but  a  skeleton,  wasted  with  starvin'  an' 
sickness,  an'  so  young,  not  more'  an 
twenty ;  an'  a  most  the  last  words  she  said 
was  that  she'd  twisted  ropes  o'  sand,  an' 
trusted  to 'em  ;  an*  they'd  broke,  :in'  lelUier 
a  wreck.  I  tell  you,  my  girl,  that's  the  way 
it'll  be  with  you,  if  you  don't  mind  what 
Abel  an'  me  tell  you." 

"  O  dadily,  stop  I  "  cried  Abel,  springing 
from  his  seat ;  lor  Violet,  deadly  pale,  was 
swaying  to  and  fro,  ready  to  fall  from  iier 
chair.  He  put  his  arms  round  her,  and 
drew  her  hoad  to  his  shoulder,  saying  ten- 
derly, "  You're  Borry  and  suflering,  dar- 
ling ;  and  that's  enough.  It's  all  forgiven  : 
we  won't  think  of  it  again." 

"  Yes,  I'm  sorry.  O  daddy,  I  did  wrong  ! 
Abel,  I  deceived  you ;  but  I  won't  do  so 
again.  I'll  never  do  so  again,  only  Ibrgive 
me  this  once." 

"  You're  forgiven,  Vi'let ;  "  and  Top 
smoothed  back  the  girl's  beautiful  hair,  and 
patted  her  cheek  fondly,  saying  again,  "  It's 
all  over,  an'  you'll  never  hear  any  more 
about  it." 

After  that  she  did  not  return  to  her  old 
place.  The  Mansion  -house  steps  knew  no 
more  of  Blue-eyed  Violet.  Abel  procured 
her  a  situation  at  a  flower-shop  in  Holborn, 
which  was  a  more  respectable  way  of 
earning  her  living;  and  she  seemed  per- 
fectly contented  with  the  change,  attended 
diligently  to  her  work  during  the  day,  and 
passed  her  evenings  preparing  her  simple 
wedding  outfit ;  for  in  the  early  summer  she 
and  Abel  were  to  be  married.  In  this  way 
the  winter  passed  off  quietly  and  happily  ; 
but  when  spring  came  there  was  a  noticeable 
change  in  Violet.  She  grew  moo<ly  and  irri- 
table, irregular  in  her  hours  of  returning 
home  at  night,  and  idle  and  listless  when 
she  was  there.  Abel  noticed  this  change 
with  anxiety ;  and  Top  watched  ker  closely, 
yet  could  discover  no  cause  for  her  uncer- 
tain behavior.  Still  the  humble  prepa- 
rations went  on  for  the  expected  marriage- 
Abel  had  found  four  ueat  rooms  in  a  clean 


LOST. 


29 


rin'  her  evil  wny«. 
u'tl  had  no  bud  for 
;  i>hu  was  nutliiii' 
with  8tarviii'  nii' 
r,  not  more'  an 
ast  words  she  said 
ropes  o'  sand,  an' 

brolce,  nn'  lelUier 
pr\,  that's  tlie  way 

don't  mind  what 

id  Abel,  spriM<;ing 
,  deadly  pale,  was 
\y  to  fall  from  her 
»  round  her,  and 
oulder,  sayinjj  teu- 
um\  8uflering,  dar- 
It's  all  forgiven : 
n." 

laddy,  I  did  wrong  1 
but  I  won't  do  so 
again,  only  Ibrgive 

i'let;  "  and  Top 
beautiful  hair,  and 
saying  again,  "  It's 
i!r  hear  any    more 

t  return  to  her  old 
use  steps  knew  no 
it.  Abel  proeured 
IP-shop  in  Holborn, 
ispeetablo  way  of 
1  she   seemed  pcr- 

0  ehangc,  attended 
iring  the  day,  and 
sparing  her  simple 
e  early  summer  she 
rried.  In  this  way 
lietly  and  happily ; 
3re  was  a  noticeable 
new  moo<ly  and  irri- 
hours  of  returning 

1  and  listless  when 
loticed  this  change 
ratched  ker  closely, 
ause  for  her  uncer- 
jo  humble  prepa- 
expected  marriage* 
3,1  rooms  in  a  clean 


court  out  of  Little  Kasfpheop,  Graro-church 
Street.  It  was  near  his  jjlacc  of  business, 
and  could  be  made  very  nomforfablo  and 
cosoy  ;  and  Top  had  promisi-d  liiin,  rathiT 
reluctantlyhowever,  togoanil  live  with  luui, 
nslie  was  now  too  feeble  to  work.  So  Abel 
looked  forward  with  honest  pride  and  plea- 
sure, to  the  moment  wlien  lie  should  have 
a  home  of  his  own,  where  he  eould  protect 
and  care  for  the  two  beings  ho  loved  best 
on  earth. 

One  night,  about  tt  month  before  the  day 
fixed  for  their  marriage,  Abel  went  to  the 
shop  in  Ilollwrn  to  fetch  Violet  homo;  for, 
having  finished  his  own  work  earlier  than 
tisual,  he  had  an  hour  to  devote  to  her. 
While  he  was  waiting  for  Violet  to  put  on 
her  hat,  Mrs.  Burt,  the  mistress  of  the  shop, 
began  to  express  her  regrets  to  the  young 
man  that  she  should  lose  her  as!<islaiit  so 
soon.  "She  brings  me  a  deal  o*  trade. 
Her  pretty  face  and  nice  ways  ])lease  my 
customers  amazin'.  Why,  there's  one  young 
gentlemsin  as  spends  a  crown  reg'lar  every 
d.ay  for  (lowers.  I  don't  know  whether  it's 
the  roses  or  the  vi'lets  he  likes  best,"  this 
with  a  sly  glance  at  the  girl,  who  stood 
with  averted  face  and  burning  cheeks. 

"  I'm  glad  she  pleases  you,"  replied  Abel 
very  gravely,  so  gravely  that  the  good 
woman  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise; 
"  but  I'ni  not  sorry  that  she  will 
have  a  home  of  her  own  soon  :  you  can 
underst.ind  my  reasons.  Put  on  your 
shawl,  Violet,"  he  added,  turning  to  the 
girl,  who  lingered,  as  though  unwilling  to 
go. 

She  obeyed  silently  and  reluctantly ; 
and,  taking  Abel's  arm,  she  left  the  shop 
with  a  sullen  good-night  to  her  mistress. 
The  young  man  watched  her  face  closely 
while  he  talked  on  some  indifferent  subject. 
Jlore  than  once  she  glanced  back  anxiously, 
as  though  she  were  looking  ibr  some  one, 
while  she  talked  r.apidly,  and  w.tlked  hur- 
riedly. At  last,  when  they  led  Holborn, 
and  turned  into  Farringdon  Street,  her 
manner  changed  suddenly  ;  and  she  said  in 
a  harsh,  angry  voice,  "  Abel,  you're  watch- 
ing nic." 


"  God  forbid,  Violet,  that  1  >hr,nh\  watch 
one  w4io'll  bo  my  wifo  in  less  than  a 
month ! " 

"Hut  you  do,  nil  the  same:  I  see  it  in 
your  face.     You  don't  trust  me." 

"  Violet,  darling,  .sometimes  whi-n  people 
do  wrong,  they're  very  suspicious." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  she  saiil  sid- 
lenly.  "  You  have  a  strange  way  of  saying 
thing.i." 

"  Never  mind,  dear,  don't  let  us  disagree. 
I'm  too  happy  to  notice  trifles,  and  I  don't 
want  you  to  either.  If  you're  a  little  uncer- 
tain sometimes,  I  think  it's  the  way  with  all 
girls :  that  some  whim  has  entered  your 
pretty  head,  and  to  let  you  indulge  it  is  the 
best  way." 

"  I  don't  have  whims,  Alwl :  I've  serious 
things  to  think  o(,"  r.!ie  returned  with  a 
heavy  sigh,  and  a  furtive  glance  at  Jiis  kind 
face. 

"  Possible !  "  ho  said,  laughing  a  little. 
"  I  thought  you  were  full  of  fancies,  and  as 
careless  as  the  wind."  Then  he  chiingcjd 
the  conversation,  and  toM  her  how  very 
kind  Mr.  Thorpe  had  been  to  him  ;  how  ho 
had  nifide  him  a  present  of  ten  poiinils 
toward  furnishing  Ids  rooms,  an<l  had 
promised  to  increase  his  salary  at  the  enil 
of  the  year.  All  this  Violet  listened  to 
with  little  apparent  interest,  and  Abel  felt 
it ;  still  he  was  too  confident,  and  too  huppy, 
to  be  e.\acting.  An  hour  after,  while  they 
sat  around  their  little  supper-table,  sudden- 
ly the  girl  burst  into  tears,  and  soi)hed  pas- 
sionately, refusing  to  tell  them  the  cause  of 
her  trouble,  and  declining  to  answer  their 
anxious  questions. 

"  She's  tired  and  nervous,"  said  Top, 
in  reply  to  Abel's  mute  look  of  inquiry. 
"  She's  nervous,  that's  all ;  to-morrow  she'll 
be  better.  (Jo  to  l>ed,  Vi'let,  dear,  an'  rest, 
an'  sleep;  it'.s  that  you  need." 

The  girl  got  up  with  a  trembling  step, 
still  holiiing  her  handkerchief  before  her 
eyes,  and  went  toward  her  bedroom  d<K)r. 
Then,  as  if  some  suilden  impulse  hiid 
prompted  her,  she  turned,  and,  throwing 
her  arms  around  Top's  neck,  she  kissed  him 
fondly,  and  said  in  a  choked  voice,  "  You 


30 


nOPES  OF  8AND. 


I 


liiive  hcen   piMwl   to  inc,   diiiMy;  nnd  I'm! 
(;riilf('iil    mill    tliiiiikl'iil.       Ami    yim,    too, 
Alicl,"  clii!  (  ricil,  with  luiotlicr   paHi-ioimtc  * 
burnt   of  li'arK,  i\A  nIic  clim','  to  tlie  yomi^' 
iiiiin,  ami  kism'il  liliii  with  ii  sorrowful  fiT- 
vor,  "yoii'vi!  lit'cn  so  iiationt  ami   ^viuW 
with  inc;  ami  I  don't  tU'scrve  it."    Tlion, 
bi'forc  Ahul  coiiM  ftpeak,  shii  broke  away 
from  his  iMicirLlin;,'  aniin,  ami,  rushin;i  into 
her  room,  nho  clocfd  the  door,  mid  locked 
it    behind    ber.     Both    renu-mbered    that 
Heeiie  and  that  embrace  lonj;  aAer.     The 
thought  of  it  was  a  comfort  to  jmor  old 
Top  on  his  death-bed;   the  memory  of  it, 
a  consolation  to  Abel  in   the   dark   hours 
that  followed. 

The  next  night  Abel  was  detained  in  (he 
oflice  to  ilo  some  extra  work  for  young  Mr. 
Thorpe,  whom  he  had  sca.vc  seen  for  the 
day;  therefore  it  was  late  \.i  en  he  reached 
home.  The  first  (pieslio'i  from  Top,  ns 
he  entered  the  little  parlor,  was,  "  Where's 
Vi'letV" 

«'  Why;  isn't  she  home  ?  "  cried  Abel  in 
astonishment. 

"  No  :  cihe  hasn't  coiue,  and  I  thought 
she  was  with  you." 

"  I  h  '.ven't  seen  her.  I've  just  lefl 
the  ofTici-.  She  must  be  at  the  shop:  I'll 
go  and  fetch  her  ;  "  and,  wiiliout  another 
word,  he  rushed  out,  leaving  Top  to  wonder 
why  she  was  so  late. 

When  Abel  reached  llolborn,  Mrs.  Burt 
was  just  putting  up  her  shutters ;  ancl  to 
his  anxious  inquiries,  she  tcld  him  that 
Violet  had  left  earlier  than  usual,  saying 
that  she  had  a  headache,  and  must  go 
Lome. 

"  But  she's  not  there,"  cried  Abel  in  dis- 
may. 

"  Not  there  I  AVhere  can  she  be, 
then  'i " 

"God  only  knows.  What  shall  I  do? 
Where  shall  I  go?"  he  said,  trembling 
with  excitement. 

"  I'd  kec])  calm  ;  I  wouldn't  worry  :  she's 
no  doubt  all  right.  Perhaps  she's  met  an 
ac(|uaintaiice,  and  gone  somewhere  to 
pass  the  evening." 

"  She  has  no  accjuaintances  ;   she  never 


would  do  such  a,  thing  :  something  has  hnp- 
pimeil  to  her." 

"(io  back  home,  an'  likely  you'll  find 
her  there,"  said  the  woman  kindly. 

"Tell  me,  Mrs.  Burl,  have  you  noticed 
any  thing  wrong?  has  Violet  had  any  ic- 
(piaintances  that  T  don't  know  of?  " 

"I'm  not  sure,  Mr.  Winter;  1  it  I  am 
afraid  she  lias.  That  handsome  young 
gentleman,  as  I  s|><jke  of  the  other  niuht, 
has  been  here  lately  more  'an  was  neces- 
sary. Only  to-day  I  spoke  to  Vi'let  about  it, 
kimlly  like,  just  as  1  would  to  one  of  my 
own  children.  At  first  she  was  a  l>it  cross ; 
then  she  laughed  it  oflT,  and  nolhin'  more 
was  said.  I'm  sure  somethin's  been 
troublin'  her  lati'ly.  To-day  she  seemed 
dull  like,  an' just  before  she  went  out  I'm 
sure  I  saw  her  a  cryin'." 

"  I   can't  hear    any   more,"    said    Abel 
fairly  (juivoring,  ami  pale  as  death.    "  I'll 

•ro  home  and  see  if  she's  there  yet ;  for  of 
^  ..It, 

course  she'll  come  some  time  to-ni,ilit. 

Scarce  knowing  what  ho  did,  he  ruslied 

like  the  wind  through  the  streets,  and  burst 

into   the  little   room   where    Top    waited 

anxiously,  only  to  find  that   she  was   not 

there.     Without  stojiping  to  listen  to  the 

old  man's  trembling  imptiries,  he  started 

out    again.      Pale,   wild-eyed,   driven    by 

the    demon    of  suspicion    and    doubt,   ho 

scoured  the  streets  around  IIollx)in,  in  the 

hope  that  he  might  see  her  or  hear  from 

her.     At  last,  almost  exhausted,  ht^  Ieane<l 

a"ainst  a  lami)-post  and  tried  to  think  ;  but 

his  brain  was  in  a  whirl,  his  senses  seemed 

leaving  hiin.     A  policeman  seeiii,'  him,  and 

thinking  he  was  intoxicated,  spoke  harshly 

to  him;  but,  hearing  his  story,  he  tried  to 

comfort  him.     "You'd  better  go- home  tin' 

go  to  bed.      It's  late,  an'  you   can't    do 

nothin'  till  daylight.    The  gal's  lost,  that's 

certain ;  an'  it's  common  enough  in  London  : 

but  you  can  find  her  in  no  time,  if  you  set 

about  it  the  right  way,  an'  if  she  ain't  gone 

otr  of  her  own  free  will.    In  that  case  it's 

hard  to  find  'em.     Wait  till  mornin',  an'  go 

to  Scotland  Yard  :  they'll  fix  it  up  all  right 

for  you  there.     Young  an'  pretty,  you  say  ? 

Well,  then,  it's   not  so   strange  that  she's 


TUtt.     «1TTE*  f^^9K 


luthin;^  lm«  linp- 

ki'ly  you'll  find 
kirxlly. 

ivi!  villi  iioticotl 
let  liiul  liny  ic- 
low  ol'V  " 
iitiM-;  l.tt  I  am 
aiulsoiiiu  young 
tilt'  otluT  niulit, 
I'  'an  was  iii't'i-s- 
to  Vi'let  ultout  it, 
1(1  to  one  ol'  my 
'  was  ii  l>it  croHs; 
inil  iiolliin'  iiioro 
souu'tiiiii's  lit'cn 
-day  dii-  cfciiicil 
shu  went  out  I'm 

loro,"    saiil   Abel 
•  ns  death.    "I'll 
there  yet  ;  for  of 
me  to-ni^iit." 
10  did,  hf  nishcd 

street.",  and  Imrst 
lere  Top  waited 
that  she  was  not 
'T  to  listen  to  the 
|uiiies,  he  started 
-eyed,  driven  hy 
)  and  doubt,  ho 
id  Ilollxiin,  in  the 
I  her  or  hear  from 
liaiisted,  h(^  leane<l 
tried  to  iliinlc  ;  but 

his  senses  seemed 
lan  seein.;  him,  and 
ited,  spolvo  harshly 

story,  he  tried  to 
better  jro-homu  an' 

an'  you  can't  do 
he  gal's  lost,  that's 
enou;.;h  in  London : 
no  time,  if  you  set 
m'  if  she  ain't  gone 
.  In  that  case  it's 
t  till  mornin',  an'  go 
'II  fix  it  ui)  all  right 
in'  pretty,  you  say  ? 
I   stranjio  that  she's 


logt.  If  she  was  old  and  u;;ly,  ten  to  one 
you'd  find  her  lionie  safe  enough  when  you 
got  there.'' 

Abel  did  not  wait  to  hear  any  more  from 
thu  "guardian  of  the  ni'^ht,"  hut  dashed  od' 
wiih  the  Word  "iDst"  riii'^'ing  in  his  ears 
like  a  funeral  knell.  Neither  did  htt  wait 
for  morning  belLire  hu  went  to  Scotland 
Yard,  lie  took  a  hansom,  and  paid  the  man 
an  extra  shilling  to  drive  him  iheru  as 
quickly  an  jiossible. 

The  ollicer  listened  to  his  story  with 
what  Abel  thought  stony  indiHerence; 
took  the 'description  of  the  girl,  item  by 
item,  even  to  the  color  of  the  ribl)oii  she 
wore  on  her  hat ;  and  then  said  coolly, '-  Hut 
how  <Io  you  know  she  ain't  gone  oil'  of  her 
own  accord  'I  " 

"  I  know  sho  would  never  do  that,"  cried 
Abel  iles|)erately.  "  Why,  we  were  to  be 
married  in  less  than  a  month." 

The  odicer  looked  lit  him  with  a  sort  of 
sarcastic  piiy  ;  ami,  turning  to  a  man  half 
asleep  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  ho  said 
laconically,  giving  him  the  written  descrij)- 
tion,  "  Here,  ,Jim,  look  this  gal  up." 

Abel  saw  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 
learned  there,  and  nothing  more  to  be  done 
for  the  present ;  so  he  dismisseil  the  hansom, 
and  walked  away  he  scarcely  knew  whither. 

It  was  daylight  wlieii  he  reached  home. 
To])  was  still  up,  waiting  anxiously. 
"Have  you  heard  anything'/"  he  cried, 
looking  with  fear  at  Abel's  haggard  coun- 
tenance. 

"Nothing,  nothing,  daddy:  she's  lost! 
she's  lost  1"  and,  throwing  himself  on  the 
floor  at  the  ohl  man's  feet,  he  hid  his  face 
against  his  knees,  and  sobbed  aloud. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   DITTEK  CUP. 

The  first  thing  that  Abel  did  the  next 
morning  was  to  take  a  cab,  and  drive  out 
to  Mr.  Thorjie's  at  Brompton.  He  did  not 
go  there  with  the  intention  of  intruding  his 


81 


i|it>4i  111'* «"»!  fitj'i'r,  Imt  li.r  ill''  |)ur- 
jHHi  I  obtaiiiiiii;  mvu  of  aliseiice  for  a 
weci.  iliat  lie  mip..u  devote  his  whole  timu 
to  lii«  M  ;inh  tiir  Viiiict.  As  soon  a*  ho 
entered  his  preseuct-,  Mr.  Thurpc  saw  by 
his  dciwiirast,  snrrowfiil  face,  that  he  was  in 
trouble;  and,  holding  out  his  liatid,  he  said 
kindly,  "  What  is  it,  Abel '.'  "  This  une.x- 
jK'ctfd  interest  was  too  min  h  (i)r  the  pmir 
Icllow,  whose  heart  was  ready  In  civcrdiiW 
at  thu  first  word  of  sym|>athy ;  sn.  with  a 
burst  ol' tears,  he  told  his  ciiiployrr  of  the 
sudden  and  strange  disapiiraranic  of  Vio- 
let,  of  his  tears  of  tbiil  play,  and  his  wish 
to  devote  his  entire  time  to  a  seareh  for 
her. 

Mr.  Thorpe  listened  to  him  with  the 
deepi'st  pity.  He  had  his  suspicions ;  but 
ho  could  not  hear  to  discourage  the  poor 
young  man,  by  even  hliiliii.;  them.  "So 
you  think  there  is  some  villainy  at  the  bot- 
tom of  this  ?  you  are  sure  that  she  hasn't 
gone  of  her  own  will  ?  " 

"No,  no  I  I  don't  know.  I'm  sure  of 
nothing.  O  Mr.  Thorpe  I  don't  say  that! 
don't  li)r  (Jod's  sake !  She  was  as  good 
and  as  ])nre-hearted  a  gii'l  as  ever  lived," 
cried  Abel,  struggling  desperately  against 
his  own  fears  and  suspicions. 

"Yes  :  she  may  liavo  been  all  that;  and 
I  dare  say  she  was:  but  still  some  villain 
might  have  deceived  her,  and  won  lier  eon- 
fideiiee,  and  at  last  induced  her  to  listen  to 
his  [iroposals." 

"  I  can't  bear  it,  Mr.  Thorpe ;  indeed  I 
can't :  pray  don't  think  that  of  her." 

"  I  know  it  hurts  you,  Abel ;  you  loved 
the  girl;  yon  trusted  her;  and  you  still 
have  faith  in  her  :  but  bo  prepared  for  the 
worst,  tlu!  very  worst,  and  try  to  bear  it 
like  a  man.  You  have  my  warmest  sym- 
pathy, and  more  than  thiit,  my  assistance 
in  finding  her.  Advertise  in  all  jlie  news- 
papers; employ  any  means  you  like,  and 
I'll  defray  the  expense.  It's  a  hard  blow 
for  you;  and  you  don't  deserve  it.  You've 
tried  bravely  to  get  on,  and  you're  worthy  of 
a  better  fate ;  but,  in  case  of  the  worst,  bo 
patient  and  strong,  and  in  time  you'll  get 
over  it." 


V^P' 


t^-!-^->'-^^^tf^'^.-VjVim'**^-ji'^w«'.i'.w"»- '  "ji.. ^..I'j'iuM'i 


32 


nOPKB  OF  BAND. 


I 


1! 


"I  noviT    Klmll,  Mr,  TlwNrpo :    1  iu'v.t| 
thnll.     I    I'lVf'l  liir  inoru  tliiui  my  "wn 

llfi'," 

"  AM,    I   RiM'iik    to  you    nn    rricinl    to 
frlcnil,  ii«    mini  to   in;in.      I've   llkiil   you 
from  the  fir!<t ;  tluTi''.^  iihviiyi*  tn'cn  a  «)rt 
of  !«ymi>iitliy  lii'lwccn  m\  ami  now  in  your 
tnitililf  I  <Mii  li'''l  t'""  y""'  '>"  '  •■""'''  ''"*  '"•' 
own  con.     I'vi'  liii'l  comi'  I'Sprrir  ico.     Tve 
drunk  of  the  Wtter  cnp  myxi-lf.     Wlun 
UolK'n'!"  motliiT  (lii'il,  I  tlion:;lnt.  lifi'  WHS 
finislii'iMor  mi' ;  liiit  I'vf  oiitliviMl  (Ifspiiir, 
nml  am  rt-ni'^nt'il,  ami  i^vi'n  Iniupy  at  times. 
Onr  first  tronUlf   U  tliu  hardest   to  hear. 
Time  cures,  while  it  inurpH  iw  to  our  mis- 
forlunes.     IJe    patient,  and  trust  in  God; 
and  you'll  oullivo  this,  even  at  its  worst." 

"  I  iinpe  I  niay ;  for  it  wcmn  to  me  that 
I  eouM  not  endure  life  with  «ueh  a  wei^jht 
upon  me,"  said  Ahel,  as  l\v  wipeil  away  his 
fast  llowiu'j;  tears. 

It  was  a  lilossed  thin;;  for  him  that  he 
was  youn,',  and  had  not  outlived  his  tears. 
No  matter  how  },'reat  is  tlio  (;rief,  wldle  we 
can  weep,  it  does  not  hum  and  consume  the 
heart. 

"  Take  a  week,  and  lon;;er  if  you  like ; 
and  rU  do  your  work  myself,"  said  Mr. 
Thorpe,  pressing  his  hand  kimlly  anil  cn- 
Coura;;in^ly  as  he  lell  him. 

From  there,  he  went  to  Scotland  Yard. 
Of  course  nothiir^  had  houn  heard  of  the  girl 
in  HO  chort  a  tiuu-.  Then  he  hastened  to 
the  jiublishing  houses  of  nil  the  prominent 
London  journals,  and  caused  the  following 
B<lverti»enient  to  bo  inserted. 

"  If  Violet  will  return  to  her  home,  and 

her  unhappy  friends,  all  will  he  Ibr^iven, 

no  matter  ho^v  'neat  the  fault. 

"  AnEL." 


Tills  could  only  apply  to  her  if  she  had 
gone  away  of  her  own  will :  he  was  slow  to 
admit  it,  still,  he  would  leave  no  stone  un- 
turned, if  he  might  but  win  her  back. 
AiVerwaid  he  went  to  the  flower-shop,  in 
Ilolboru,  to  learn  if  Mrs.  Burt  had  heard 
any  thin;;  of  her. 

"1  don't  know  as  it's  much  to  tell  you, 
Mr.  Winter;  but  my  little  boy,  as  carries 


out  the  doweri",  sayn  he's  nure  he-  mw  Vl'let 
..;et  into  a  cab,  at  the  iwtii  -f  Oxfonl 
Street,  alKHit  seven  o'clirk  last  ni;ht;  an* 
that  wan  a  few  nilnutoii  at\er  the  tlmo  (ho 

let>  h.-re." 

»  Where  is  tho  hoy  ?  It't  tt».  *oti  him  at 
once;"  and  Ab.'l's  fai'c  c»iiim-.  I  suddenly 
from  thu  liallor  of  despiur  to  the  crimson 
of  hoiH-. 

"  Here  he  is.  Now,  Johnny,  tell  tho  gen- 
tleman all  you  know,  as  straight  as  a  I k," 

saiil  the  mother,  as  the  Ikiv  spran,'  over  tho 
coimter,  an-l  placed  hiuiU'lf  scpiarely  before 
the  young  man,  eager  to  give  any  informa- 
tion, in  the  hope  of  receiving  a  MXpenee. 

"  Are  you  stire  it  was  she  V  "  asked  Abel, 
fixing  his  eyes  on  tho  boy,  as  though  ho 
would  read  his  heart. 

"  Yes,  sir,  as  sure's  can  bo.  Wliy,  I  just 
seed  her  an  'alf  an  hour  afore,  an'  sho 
'ad  on  the  vi>ry  self-same  things.  I  can  tell 
you  every  one,  sir.  A  grayish-like  ealikur 
gown,  with  tucks  inter  the  bottom,  a  little 
black  apron  with  crinkly  red  braid  ou  it,  a 
brown  shawl,  an'  a  while  straw  hat  with  a 
bluish-plaid  ribbon.  An'  'cr  hair  a  kind 
o'  hangiu'  down  'er  back  in  curls.  Ain't 
that  'er,  sir?  " 

"  Yes :  that  is  certainly  the  way  she  was 
dressed,"  replied  Abel,  almost  weeping  at 
tho  exact  description,  as  exact  as  ho  had 
given  it  the  ni-ht  before  at  Scotland  Yard. 
"  Did  you  see  her  face  ?  "  he  incjuired  ;  for 
the  boy  wtis  burning  to  tell  more. 

"  No,  sir,  I  can't  say  as  I  did .  'cause  when 
I  first  popped  'er,  she  was  a-puttiu'  one  foot 
on  ter  the  steps  o'  the  cab,  an'  'er  back  was 
ter  me,  an'  the  driver  he  was  a-leanin'  for- 
•ard  to  listen  to  someihin'  she  was  a-sayin', 
an'  she  was  a-cryin'  like  a—  like  a  —  fish," 
ho  blurted  out,  in  dire  extremity  for  a 
comparison. 

"  How  did  you  know  she  was  crying,  if 
you  didn't  see  her  A\ce  V  "  asked  Abel  stern- 
ly, not  caring  for  any  elaborations,  and  only 
requiring  in  his  emergency  tho  simple, 
unvarnished  truth. 

"  Hush,  hush,  Johnny,"  interposed  his 
mother.  "  You  didn't  say  afore  as  how  she 
was  a-cryin'." 


pt5-5rglPfSK'^^^^3S«B!!W 


THK   niTTKIl  CUP. 


.13 


in"  he  Kiiw  Vrict 
ir«t.,  .f  Oxlunl 
;  lust  ni'jlit;  nn' 
lifr  llio  tliiio  Am 

t  ivv  *oo  111  in  at 
mmn'  I  Hiiilili'iily 
r  to  iho  irinison 

inny,  tdl  tlio  Rfin- 
•ai(;ht  us  ii  liDok," 
y  sprun'^  over  tho 
ir  wiiiurcly  ln'li>ro 
;;ivi!  any  iiirorma- 
iiiS  a  fixpi'iici'. 
Iiu  V"  iiski'il  AIm'I, 
DV,  fts  tlioii^h  ho 

bo.  Wliy,  I  just  , 
ur  afort',  iin'  slie 
tliinu'8.  I  can  tell 
rayish-like  ciilikcr 
he  bottom,  a  littlo 
'  reil  briiiilcii\  it,  a 

utraw  hat  with  a 
n'  'er  hair  a  kind 
c   in  curls.     Ain't 

y  the  way  «ho  was 
[ilmost  weeping  at 
s  exact  as  ho  liad 
at  Seotlaml  Yard. 
"  ho  iniiuired  ;  for 
;cll  more. 

» I  did .  'cause  when 
IS  a-puttin'  one  foot 
lb,  an'  'er  back  was 
u  was  a-leanin'  for- 
n'  she  was  a-sayin', 
,  a— like  a  — fish," 
•0  extremity  for  a 

she  was  crying,  if 
"  asked  Abel  stern- 
aborations,  and  only 
geney  tho    simple, 

ly,"  interposed  his 
say  afore  as  how  she 


7 


"  Will,  'cause  I  didn't   think  of  if,"  re- 
turnt  il  the  iiiipiTtiirlialilc  infoiiu.iiit  ;  "  an' 

now  I  'ill Inr  MS  how  [  ihoiiijiit  nho  was. 

'eauM'  I  fifil 'er'nnkcivlierin 'er'and  when 
she  reai'hi'il  out  to  fasten  the  door." 

"  \V:m  'hi'  alone  Y  Now  tell  nie  tho  truth, 
and  I'll  ;,'lve  you  a  shillin;;." 

"  I  flon't  know,  sir  ;  but  I  "'noso  she  were, 
'cau-'c  I  didn't  see  ni.  <n  ,  .loii'^di  I  should 
n't  wonder  if  I  here  wero  someone  a-wnitin' 
lor  'er  in  tlui  cab  ;  'eniiso  thu  (Mirtains  was 
down  like  as  they  al'ays  is  to  u  funeral." 
"  Wliiili  way  did  the  cub  |,'oV" 
"  Wiiy,  down  Oxford  like  mad.  So  fast 
that  a  p'liceinen  batted  at  the  "orses  ;  hut  he 
didn't  hit  'cm,  an'  the  driver  just  snick- 
ered, an  thiiiidied  his  noso  at  'im." 

In  spite  of  I  he  seriousness  of  the  occasion, 
Mrs.  Uiirt  l,iii;,rhed  at  the  facetious  deserij)- 
tlon  of  her  oll'sprin},',  and  Abel  si;;hed  heav- 
ily ;  but  (he  boy  nniintained  his  solemn 
tjravity,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  thinnbs 
in  his  trousers  pockets, and  his  unwaverinf; 
eyes  fixed  on  the  youn;?  man's  face,  as  un- 
flinchingly as  a  statue  of  Truth, 

"  Did  you  notice  the  number  of  the  cab 'i"' 
cried  Abel  caf,'erly,  as  a  sudden  thought 
made  his  heart  bound  with  hope. 

"No,  sir,  I  didn't.  How  could  I  when 
he  drove  ofl"  like  lii^htnin'  ?  but  I'd  know  the 
cabby  anywhere  if  I  set  eyes  on  'im,  'cause 
he  'ad  a  noso  as  bi<r  as  —  as  big  as  a 
—  stove." 

"Johnny,  Johnny,  bo  c.ireful  an*  tell  the 
truth,"  mildly  interposed  Mrs.  Burt  again. 

"Well  ain't  I  a  tellin'  the  truth,  as 
solemn  as  ihoujrh  I  was  swore  V  "  questioned 
Johnny  in  an  injured  tone  of  voice. 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  as  how  you  are ;  "cause 
no  man's  got  a  nose  as  big  as  a  stove." 

"  Yes,  them  cabbies  is.  Lots  of  'em's  got 
noses  as  big  as  little  stoves  ;  an'  I  didn't  flay 
what  size  stoves,"  returned  tho  boy,  deter- 
mined to  defend  his  word  from  imputation 
by  the  most  unanswerable  logic. 

"  Never  mind   that,"  interrupted   Abel, 

driven   to  desperation  by   this  nonsense. 

"  You  think  you'd  know  the  man  if  you  saw 

him  again  'I " 

"  Certain,  'cause  'o    tho   nose,"  replied 


[.Johnny  with  nnnlrof  the  strongest  convlc 
lion. 

"  Well,  then,  Mrs.  Hurl,  will  you  hi  the 
Imiv  CO  with  nie  V  perhiips  with  his  help  [ 
•■an  find  the  calmian,  ami  may  learn  iVoiii  liiiii 
what  I  want  to  know." 

"Certain, certain,  Mr.  Winli'r:  kee[iliim 
as  long  as  ymi  like,  an'  I'll  bonow  a  iici.;h- 
bor's  little  boy  to  ru'i  errands  while  hc'n 
gcuie,"  replied  Mrs.  Hurt  kindly  a.s  Abel 
hurried  away. 

.Johnny,  delighted  with  the  prospect  of  a 
day  among  Lcmdoii  cabs,  expressed  his 
satisfaction  wiili  a  double  somerset,  ami  a 
final  exit  on  his  hands,  much  to  the  diMiiay 
of  his  mother,  who  declared  that  he  would 
turn  his  brains  upside  down. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  .Johnny's  story 
of  the  nose  was  a  fabrication  of  his  inven- 
tive brain  :  there  was  no  cabby  to  be  f  mnd 
with  a  facial  appendage  larger  ami  more 
striking  than  that  of  a  hundred  otiiers, 
as  Aliel  began  to  susjieet;  for,  atler  a  day's 
search  among  tho  five  thousand  publi^ 
vehicles  which  eimstitute  part  of  tin!  rolaiy 
motion  of  London,  and  iheir  live  tliousand 
drivers,  ho  f.uled  to  find  one  with  a  nose  as 
largo  as  even  the  smallest  of  stoves,  in  spitu 
of  Johnny's  constant  prediction  that  they 
would  ('ome  ujwn  him  somewhere  when  they 
didn't  exi)ect  it,  although  he  pretended  to 
bo  looking  for  him  every  moment.  Heforo 
the  day  was  over,  the  pwjr  fellow,  hoping 
against  hope,  had  asked  hundreds  of  these 
obdurate  Jehus  if  they  had  driven  a  young 
girl  from  Oxford  Street  the  night  before, 
only  to  receive  an  indifferent  and  dis- 
heartening negative.  Nearly  all  tho  week 
he  might  have  been  seen  at  the  differcuit 
cab-stands,  and  around  IloUjorn  and  Ox- 
ford Streets,  with  .lohnny  always  at  his  side, 
interested  and  attentive  ;  but  still  tho  man 
with  the  remarkable  noso  never  made  his 
appearance,  nor  ever  had  been  soon  by  any 
one,  that  he  could  discover,  except  that 
young  disciple  of  Truth,  who  frequently 
declared  that"  ho  must  a  died  sudden,  or 
else  he'd  a  turned  up  afore." 

It  was  not  until  a  week  was  spent  in  this 
useless  search  that  Abel  would  acknowlodi'e 


't/S!f!JfS~S&SSK:stEiCVIIKIiSi&^'\'ih 


il 


84 


ROPE8  OP  SAND. 


to  himself  that  he  had  been  dcceivcl  in 
rcf^iird  to  Violet's  haviiv^'  Roiie  away  in  a 
cab.     Slill,  the  lond  mother  had  not  the 
bast  donbt  that  her  ollVpi-in:^  had  seen  the 
girl  driven  olV  in  a  vehicle  whose  eon.luctor 
had  an  enormons  nose,   though,   perhaps, 
not  .piite  .as  large  as  a  small  stove.     At  the 
end  of  the  week,  after  Abel  had  haunted 
Seotland   Yard,   the  cab-stands,   and   the 
Btreets  aroun.l  Ilolborn,  with  no  success,  he 
was  obliged  to  confess  to  poor  old  Top,  who 
sat  at  home,  weakly  lamenting,  that  he  had 
but  little  hope  of  ever  finding  Violet,  or  of 
even  hearing  from  her.    "  She  must  have 
gone  of  her  own  will,  or  else  all  my  cflorts 
wouldn't    have    been    in  vain,"    bo    saul 

gloomily. 

"  God  forgive  her,  my  boy,  if  she  did . 
for  it'll  be  the  means  o'  my  death.  It's  a 
blow  I  can't  get  over.  Some  way  I  feel  ten 
years  older  an'   I  di<l   a   week  ago.     I'm 


tient  like,  and  not  lose  your  interest  in  life, 
iin'  get  discouraged  when  you're  all  alone, 
an'  don't  have  me  to  talk  to  you." 

'••  Don't  have  you,  d.addy  ?     Why,  what 
do  yon  mean?     You're   not  ill,  are  youV 
Do  you  feel  pain   anywliero  V    T.'H    me, 
and  I'll  bring  a  doctor,"  said  Abel  anxious- 
ly,  as  he  looked  with  close  scrutiny  into  the 
pale,  wrinkled  face  of  the  old  num.     His 
trouble   surely   had    blinded    him,   or  he 
would  have  noticed  before  how  drea.lfully 
this  week  of  anxiety  had  told  upon  poor 
old  Top.     His  ciieeks,  that  had  always  a 
healtliy    flush,    were    now    colorless    and. 
sunken.     His  bands  trembled  pitifully  ,  ami 
his  voice,  that  had  never  lost  its  cheery 
chirp,  was  now  low   and  depressed.    "I 
believe  you  are  ill,  da.ldy,  and  won't  tell 
mc  1    I'll  go  at  once  for  a  doctor, '  he  ex- 
claimed, starting  up,  ami  taking  his  hat. 
»  Now,  Abel,  dear,  don't  <lo  no  such  a 


iling   in   his 
I'vi 


my    

trouble,  an'  not  be  able  to  comfort  you. 
I've  al'ays  been  a  comfort  to  you  afore 
Ain'tl,  my  boy?" 


go.  When  God  callh  poor  old  Top,  he's 
ready ;  an'  all  the  doctors  in  tlic  world  can't 
keep  him  a  minit.     So  you  see,  it'd  be  a 


uV' 'ves  vouhave  daddy, dear," sobbed    pity  to  spend  money  for  naMy  drugs,  as'd 
a  ^ ,,,  J  ,.s,  >  ou  have,  aaa  ly,        ,  i  ^_^^^j    ^^,  ^     .  ^^  ^j.^,^. 


Abel ;  ''  and  you  are  now." 

"  No  :  it  don't  seem  as  if  I  was  now.  I 
know  I  kind  o'  fail  to  reach  your  case.  It 
ain't  like  your  other  little  troubles;  an' 
none  but  God  can  comfort  you.  It's  no  use 
for  me  to  talk  much  about  it  to  you.  It's 
no  use  to  keep  l^  tearin'  open  your  wounds 


only  turn  my  stomach,  an'  spoil  my  ai)pc- 
tite.  Now,  you  don't  s'pose  poor  old  cre- 
tur's  like  mc  is  a  goin'  to  last  al'ays,  do 
you?  Why,  look  at  my  sand-pails:  how 
many  times  I've  had  to  get  new  ones  !  An' 
people  can't  last  al'ays,  any  more  'an  sand- 
pails.     Don't  talk  any  more  'bout  my  bein' 


no  use  to  keep  l^  tearin  open  )our  «uuu.=    r  ■  .      ^. 

that'll  bled  enough  without.  _  I  was  very    su^k,  but  jus   try  an  e  ^^^^  U^^^^ 


fond  o'  Vi'let ;  but  o'  course  I  didn't  love 
her  as  you  did,  that  was  to  be  her  husband 
Still,  I   loved  her  so  much,  that,   if   she 
should  come  back  penitent,  I'd  forgive  her; 
an'  I  hope  you  would  too." 

"  Yes,  I'd  forgive  her ;  I  have  already  : 
but  she'd  never  be  the  same  to  mc  again. 
I've  lott  ber;  I  know  and  feel  it :  even  if 
ehe  should  come  back  now,  she  wouldn't  be 
the  same.  I've  lost  Violet,  and  I  never 
shall  find  her." 


There's  a  nice  slice  o'  bacon,  and  some 
muffins  hot  an'  well  buttered.  I've  got 
your  supper  for  you  many  a  night  when 
you  had  such  an  appetite  that  you  couldn  t 
get  enough.  Now  you've  got  plenty,  an' 
j-ou  ain't  got  the  will  to  eat  it." 

Abel  drew  near  the  table,  and  tried  to 
force  down  a  little  food  ;  but  Violet's  place 
opposite  to  his  was  empty,  and  he  missed 
her  as  he  never  had  before.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  black  shadow  over  the  spot  where 


Mf:',':;;'.'  .,■,•  »»•  be  -e.i»„ed  .„• ,..  \  U  « .«» l.»  ,0™.,  f.c.  .»  often.    HI. 


H 


\  ' 


J       1    ^ 


■^-':/>^^irhi^-^-yJI^^'f^r^^^^'^<^'-^''^— 


S»SS^2SES5W«S»"i+*S*WKffl 


Jk 


THE  BITTER  CUP. 


85 


interest  in  life, 
u'ro  all  iildiio, 
you." 

?     Why,  what 
t  ill,  are  youV 
•c  V    Tell    nie, 
,  Abel  anxiuiis- 
.•rvitiny  into  the 
old  inaii.     His 
III    hitn,   or   lie 
how  ilreadCnliy 
told  upon  poor 
t  had  always  a 
colorless    aii'l 
■d  pitil'iilly  ,  and 

lost  its  cheery 

depressed.  "  I 
,  and  won't  tell 
I  doctor,  *  he  ex- 
)king  his  hat. 
't  <lo  no  such  a 
,  smiling  in  his 
gently.     '*  I've 

life,  an'  I  never 
,d  a  sick  day,  an' 
ly  time  comes,  I'll 
jr  old  Top,  he's 
n  the  world  can't 
ou  see,  it'll  be  a 
nafiy  drugs,  as'd 
i'  spoil  my  appe- 
ase poor  old  ere- 
to  last  al'ays,  do 
•  sand-pails;  how 
jt  new  ones  !   An' 
ny  more  'an  sand- 
ore  'bout  my  bein' 

a  bite  o'  supper. 

bacon,  and  some 
luttered.  I've  got 
my  a  night  when 
B  that  you  couldn't 
ve  got  plenty,  an' 
eat  it." 

table,  and  tried  to 
1  but  Violet's  place 
ity,  and  he  missed 
ore.  There  seemed 
rcT  the  spot  where 
face  BO  often.    His 


y 


heart  was  to<i  full.  A  sob  rose  in  his 
throat  and  almost  suffocated  him.  He 
tried  to  drink  the  liot,  strong  tea  that  Top 
had  ])oured  tor  him;  but  he  could  not  swal- 
low ;  his  tears  fell  into  his  cup,  and  scorched 
his  lips.  "  It/s  no  use,  daddy,"  he  cried, 
putting  it  down.  "I  can't  eat,  I  can't 
(b'ink  ;  my  heart  is  broken."  Then  lie 
wrung  his  hiuids,  and  moaned,  "  Oh,  if  she 
were  Init  ilead !  If  she  were  but  dead  !  I 
could  bear  it,  and  thank  God.  Tm  too 
wretched  !  My  cup  is  too  bitter,  my  bur- 
den too  heavy  !  Let  n>o  go  to  uiy  own 
room.  I'm  better  alone  ;  and  I'm  so  tired, 
periia])s  I  shall  sleep  a  little,  and  forget  my 
sulVering." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  your  bed  was  the 
best  place  lor  you,"  said  Top  encoura- 
gingly, as  he  lit  his  candle.  "  But  before 
you  sleep,  just  ask  God  to  help  you  a  bit, 
an'  he'll  do  it;  tor  ho  al'ays  gives  us  a  lift 
when  our  burden's  too  heavy  for  us  to  pull 
through  alone." 

In  his  Utile  room,  Abel  tried  to  lift  his 
heart  to  God,  tried  to  draw  strength  from 
the  lijuntaiii  of  love  and  pity  ;  but,  in  lh(; 
midst  of  his  prayers  and  sobs,  he  saw  only 
the  face  of  Violet,  her  blue  eyes  tearful, 
her  mouth  quivering  with  sorrow  and  jieni- 
teaee,  and  lier  hands  outstretched  to  him. 
At  last  overcome  by  weariness,  lor  the  first 
time  within  a  week,  he  sank  into  a  dee[) 
sleep,  from  which  he  did  not  awake  until 
the  morning  sun  slicjne  into  his  room. 
That  day  he  took  his  place  again  in  the 
ollice  of  Mr.  Thorpe,  and  performi'd  his 
duty  wilh  his  usual  attention,  though  all 
noticed  that  his  liice  was  gloomy  and  down- 
cast, and  his  manner  more  reserved  and 
serious  than  usual.  Only  Mr.  Thorpe  knew 
Lis  sad  secret,  and  he  respected  it.  Young 
Mr.  Thorpe  came  in  late.  He  was  silent 
an<l  pre-occui)ied,  and  Abel  thought  that  he 
looked  jaded  and  ill :  perhaps  it  was  his 
morbid  imagination ;  lor  certainly  every 
thing  seemed  changed  to  him  now.  When 
he  returned  home  at  ni^iht,  with  that 
dreary  dread  which  we  feel  on  entering 
for  *lie  first  tiaie  a  house  from  whence  the 
mortal  remains  of  some  beloved  one   has 


been  carried,  he  found  Top  in  bed,  and 
very  weak.  Again  he  expressed  his  anxi- 
ety, and  again  the  old  man  smilingly  as- 
sured him  that  it  was  nothing.  At  his  time 
of  lil(!  people  needed  more  sleep  :  they  were 
babies  tor  the  second  time,  and  returned 
again  to  the  needs  and  habits  ot'iiifanry. 

About  three  weel's  after  \'iolet's  disap- 
pearance, anil  the  day  belbre  the  ont^  fixed 
for  his  marriage,  Abel  returned  luiine  to 
find  the  poor  old  man  very  weak  and  drowsy. 
"jIt's  no  use,  my  boy,"  he  said,  smiling 
faintly,  as  the  young  man  leaned  over  his 
bed  and  smoothed  his  ])illow.  "  I've  hated 
to  break  it  to  you  ;  but  I've  got  to  now,  seein' 
as  I've  had  my  warnin',  an"  I  ain't  long  to  be 
with  you." 

"  Uon't  say  that,  daddy,  dear ;  don't,  I 
pray,"  cried  Abel,  tis  more  than  one  tear 
dropped  on  t\w  jiinched,  wrinkled  face. 

"  But  it's  true,  my  child,  an'  you  ought  to 
be  glad  to  see  a  poor  ohl  cretin''  like  me  fin- 
ish up  his  work,  an'  go  to  sleep  in  God's 
cradle ;  for  the  grave's  his  cradle,  an',  some 
way,  I'm  longin'  for  it,  an'  ain't  sorry,  only 
for  leavin'  you  alone  an'  in  trouble  :  that's 
what  grieves  me  now.  I've  thought  of  it, 
a-lyin'  here  to-day  with  no  one  to  speak  to 
but  (;od." 

"  O  daddy  !  why  didn't  you  let  me  stay 
with  you  'I  " 

"  'Cause,  Abel,  I  wanted  to  be  alone.  1 
had  business  with  my  Maker,  accounts  to 
settle;  an'  I  didn't  want  no  confusin'  o'  fig- 
ures wilh  others  bein'  round.  We  wanted 
it  all  alone  to  otirselves,  (iod  an' Top,  lor 
the  last  reckonin'.  I  said  to  myself,  loud 
an' earnest,  like  them  judges  in  court,  '  Top, 
confess  wherein  you've  done  wi'ung.'  An'  I 
answered,  alter  I  thought  my  lili;  all  over 
like,  '  Good  Lord,  I  can't  see  if  I've  ilone 
wrong  al'ays,  'cause  in  my  ignorance  I  don't 
know ;  but  I've  tried  to  do  right.  I've 
never  wrongeil  any  one  knowin'ly.  I've 
al'ays  give  just  measiu'eo'  sand.  I'vi'  ])aid 
to  the  utmost  f'arthin'  for  all  I've  1^1.  I've 
kept  myself  and  all  about  ine  CTean,  an' 
I've  never  refused  a  crust  an'  a  cup  to  the 
poor  an'  hungry ;  but  you  know  if  in 
thoughtlessness  I've  committed  sins,  been 


MWLii|iiuawii^-.j-iiJLWjJH..-i..i.'V>'',iu'^Ji*.ii' 


.■mm 


i'i< 


36 


ROPES  OF  SAND. 


over  Imsty  in   my   temper,  an*  misjudged 
any  one,  an'  spoke  na.'^ty   angry  words,  an' 
been  harsli  an'  unforgivin' ;  you  know  it  all, 
Lord,  an'  I  'umbly  crave  your  pardon.'  Tlion 
it  seenu'd  to  me  that  a  voice,  clear  and  dis- 
tinct, like    water  a   tricklin'  over   stones, 
said  some  words  that  I  heard   a   minister 
speak  once  in  a  meetin'  at   Sniithfield,  long 
ago,  when  I  was  a  young  man ;  an'  it  was 
this  :  '  Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet,  they 
shall    be  as   white   as   snow.'     By   that  I 
know  it's  .all  settled,  an'  I've  nothin'  more 
to  worry  about ;  now  I've  had  my  warnin', 
an'  I'm  ready  to  go.     I'll  tell  you  about  it, 
Abel.     Last  night,  just  after   Bow    Bells 
struck  twelve  o'clock,  —  I've  heard  'em  for 
over  ei'^hty  years,  an'  soon  1  shall  hear  'em 
for  the  last  time ;  but  they'll  ring,  an'  ring 
the  same  when  I'm  gone ;   an'  some  other 
poor  cretur'll  lay  in  this  little   room,  an' 
hear  'em  ;  an'  Top'U  be  safe  enough  in  his 
Father's  house  a  listenin'  to  'em,  i'aint-like, 
way  below,  here  on  earth.     Well,  as  I  was 
a  savin',  I  heard  Bow  Bells ;  an'  they  sounded 
as  they  never  did  before  ,  —  as  though  angels 
had  rung  'em,  an'  then  waited  an'  rung  'em 
again.     An'  then  all  was  still,  an'  I  sort  o' 
slept,  an'  dreamed  that  your  mother  —  your 
poor  mother,  Abel,  that  died  on  my  sand- 
heap  —  come  to  me  all  in  beautiful  white,  as 
clean  and  fresh  as  a  lily,  with  a  face  as  inno- 
cent an'  peaceful  as  a  baby,  an'  held  out  her 
hands,  an'  said, '  I've  come  for  you,  good  old 
Top,'  —  think  of  that,  she  called  mc  '  good,' 
—  '  The  dear  Lord  says  I  may  bring  you  to 
him.'     Then  I  took  her  hand  confidin'-like, 
an'  we  seemed  to  be   floatin'   in   the   air, 
away  up  above  the  cross  on  St.  Paul's  ;  an' 
as  we  went,  leavin'  the  city  an'  all  its  noise 
an'   sin  below  us.  she  leaned  toward   me, 
an'  said  so  sweet  an'  saintly,  '  Top,  you've 
Siived  my  child ;  through  you  my  boy  will 
come  to  mo.     My  sins  are  all  washed  away, 
an'  I  shall  look  in  his  face  holy  an'  pure.' 
That  is  what  she  said,  I  remember   every 
word.     'Jijien  it  seemed  as  though  a  great 
light   sliOTC  round  us ;  an'  music  like  the 
charity  children  a  singin'  in  St.  Paul's  fdled 
the  air.    ^Vith  that  I  woke,  an'  found  myself 
here  in  my  little  room,  an' the  lamp  out,  an' 


the  moon  a-lookin'  in  my  window  ;  an'  I  felt 
so  peaceful  an'  liapiy  that  I  knew  I'd 
had  my  warnin',  an'  my  work  was  nigh 
done." 

"  It  was  only  a  dream,  a   sweet,  liappy 
dream,"  said  Abel,  laying  his  face  on  the  old 
man's  pillow,  to  hide  his  tears.     "  My  poor 
mother  knows  in  the  other  world  how  good 
you've  been  to  her  hoy ;  and  God  sunt  her 
in  a  dream  to  tell   you  so.     Daildy,  dear, 
I've  been  thinking  a  good  deal  of  my  mother 
since  Violet  went  .away  ;  and  I've  sometimes 
thought  that  perhaps  she  was  one  of  those 
poor  outcasts,  whom  the  world  never  for* 
gives,  and  whom  God  never  refuses  to  pity." 
"I'm   'fraid   she  was,   Abel.      I    never 
meant  to  tell  you,  but  now  p'rhaps  it's  best : 
it  may  make  you  more  gentle  with  Vi'let. 
It  was  her  that  said  as  how  she'd  twisted 
ropes  o'  sand.    Poor  cretur'  1  she'd  suffered 
an'  was  penitent,  'cause  I  saw  the  tear  on 
her  cheek  after  she  was  dead.     Remember 
that,  if  ever  you  come  across  Vi'let;  ibr  no 
matter  what  she's  done,  there  was   some- 
thiu'  good  in  the  girl.     I  can't  never  forget 
how  she  put  her  arras  'round  my  neck,  the 
night  before  she  went  away,  an'  kissed  my 
old  fivce  so  lovin'.  Her  heart  was  full  then ; 
an',  if  we'd  a  knowd  all,  we  might  have 
saved  her.     Abel,  since  I've  laid  here  alone, 
weak  an'  tired  like,  I've  thought  more  'an  I 
ever  did  in  my  whole   life  afore,   an'  I 
b'lieve  it  ain't  intended  for  us  to  be  very 
happy  here  on  earth,  'cause  our  happiness  ia 
to  come  after  this  life,  an',  more  'an  that,  I 
b'lieve  God  don't  mean  us  to  be  harsh  an' 
condemn  any  one ;  for  we're  all  sinners  in 
his  sight;  an',  if  one's  a  little  better  an' 
another,  it's  p'rhaps  'cause  they  ain't  been 
tempted  an'  tried  :  an',  good  or  bad,  we're  all 
his  children,  an'  he  loves  us  all.    If  that 
poor,   s'iled,  crushed   mother  o'  yours    is 
clean  an'  white  in  heaven,  we  musn'i  turn 
our  backs  on  any  one.     That's  why  I  don't 
feel  hard  to'ard  Vi'let,  an'  I  could  take  her 
in  my  arms  an'  forgive  her,  'cause  I  know 
(iod  will.     An',  Abel,  dear,  I  want  you  to, 
if  you  ever  find  her.    Be  pitiful  to  her,  an' 
kind,  just  like  the  Lord's  been  to  your 
mother." 


• 


>      f. 


I 
I 

1 


li»aj..a»J.t.i<Af' 


THE  BITTER  CUP. 


idow  ;  an'  I  fi-lt 
t  I  knew  I'd 
fork   was  nigh 

sweet,  liappy 
I  face  on  the  old 
.rs.  "  My  poor 
vorld  liow  good 
(I  God  Sunt  lier 

Daildy,  dear, 
[il  of  my  mother 
I  I've  sometimes 
IS  one  of  tliose 
rorld  never  for- 
refuses  to  pity." 
ibel.      I    never 
I'rhaps  it's  best : 
ntle  with  Vi'let. 
w  she'd  twisted 
I  she'd  suffered 
saw  tlie  tear  on 
ad.     Remember 
5S  Vi'let ;  ibr  no 
here  was   some- 
in't  never  forget 
id  my  neck,  the 
:,  an'  kissed  my 
rt  was  full  then ; 
we  might  have 
e  laid  here  alone, 
ought  more  'an  1 
ife  afore,   an'  I 
ir  us  to  be  very 
!  our  happiness  is 
more  'an  that,  I 
to  be  harsh  an' 
re  all  sinners  in 
little  better  an' 
B  they  ain't  been 
dor  bad,  we're  all 
I  us  all.    If  that 
ther  o'  yours    is 
1,  we  niusn'l  turn 
'hat's  why  I  don't 
'  I  could  take  her 
tir,  'cause,  I  know 
u',  I  want  you  to, 
pitiful  to  her,  an' 
I's  been  to  your 


37 


"  T  will,  I  will,"  said  Abel  solemnly :  "  I 
promise  you  tliat  I  will." 

"  An'  I  want  you  to  try  an'  be  strong,  an' 
patient,  an'  live  to  do  all  the  good  you  can 
to  the  poor  an'  sufferin'.  P'rliaps  God 
intends  that  you  ain't  to  be  happy  here  : 
I'm  'fraid  he  does.  I'm  'fraid  sorrow'll  be 
your  portion,  'cause  you've  commenced  so 
young ;  but  you'll  get  your  share  o'  happi- 
ness in  the  end  when  God  takes  you  home, 
—  that  is,  if  you  don't  trust  to  ropes  o'  sand ; 
an'  I'm  sure  you  won't,  Abel.  You've  more 
good  in  you  than  to  turn  to  folly  an'  sin  for 
'comfort.  I'm  sure  you'll  do  right,  even  if 
it  makes  you  suffer  for  the  time.  If  you 
have  enemies,  forgive  'em,  an'  do  'em  a 
good  turn ;  an'  be  just  to  every  one.  I 
'don't  know  as  I  can  say  any  more  'an  that. 
Now,  my  boy,  I've  got  somethin'  to  give 
you  'sides  advice.  AVhen  I'm  gone,  you'll 
fiml  a  box  under  my  bed,  an'  here's  the  key 
round  my  neck.  There's  near  upon  a  hun- 
dred pounds  in  that  box,  —  I've  been  all  my 
life  a  savin'  it,  penny  by  penny,  —  an'  six 
pounds  that  belongs  to  Vi'let.  It's  her 
money  that  I  laid  away  for  her  to  buy  things 
for  her  weddin.'  If  ever  you  find  her,  give 
it  to  her  with  my  love  an'  forgiveness. 
P'r'aps  some  time  that  money  that  I've  saved 
scrap  by  scrap  '11  be  of  use  to  you.  Then, 
dear,  you'll  think  o'  your  oM  daddy,  an' 
love  him,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  think  of  you  always  without 
that,  an'  love  you  while  my  life  lasts,"  said 
Abel,  tendei-ly  smoothing  the  scanty  gray 
locks,  and  the  closely-lined  brow. 

"  I've  been  good  to  you  most  al'ays, 
haven't  I  V  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  better  than  I've  deserved." 

"  If  I've  ever  been  a  little  harsh  an'  im- 
patient to  you,  you'll  forgive  me,  won't 
you?" 

"  You've  never  been :  I  can't  remember 
an  unkind  thing." 

"  Thank  God  for  that  1  I  shouldn't  like  to 
think  that  I'd  made  you  unhappy  when 
you've  been  such  a  blessin'  to  me.  The 
only  thing  I'm  sorry  for  is  that  you  couldn't 
a  gone  to  Blue-coat  School  when  you  set 
your  mind  on  it.    I  don't  think  there  w.is 


ever  any  thing  else  that  T  didn't  try  to  do 
for  you.  Now  I've  finished  nil,  an'  I'd  like 
to  have  dieil  seein'  you  happy  wiih  Vi'let; 
but  that  can't  be,  so  I  nnist  go  an'  leave 
you  alone  an'  in  trouble ;  an'  it's  hard,  but 
God  knows  best  when  to  take  me." 

Afler  that  he  fell  into  a  light  slum!)er, 
and  Abel  sat  by  his  side  holding  the  gentle 
hand  that  had  caressed  him  and  toiled  for 
him  so  lovingly,  with  a  heart  too  full  for 
tears.  From  time  to  time  he  awoke,  and 
talked  calmly  and  cheerfully  of  some  scene 
in  his  boy's  childhood,  or  some  of  his  pretty 
baby  ways,  the  memory  of  which  still  had 
the  power  to  warm  and  cheer  his  heart. 
Once,  after  a  long  silence,  when  Abel 
thought  him  sleeping,  he  looked  up  and 
said,  "  Do  you  mind  that  day,  so  long  :igo, 
when  we'd  been  to  the  Tower,  an'  you  said 
you  shouldn't  like  to  miss  bcin'  hapi)y? 
You  was  so  young  an'  full  o'  life  then  that 
you  thought  you  couldn't  bear  it.  Now  I'm 
'fraid  you'll  have  to  :  I'm  'fraid  sorrow  an' 
sacrifice  '11  be  your  jwrtion ;  an'  the  oijly 
anxiety  I  have  is  that  you'll  sink  under 
it." 

"  Don't  fear  for  me,  daddy.  I  know 
what  my  lot's  to  be  :  I  know  that  my  happi- 
ness is  all  behind  me ;  but  1  shall  try  to 
bear  whatever's  laid  upon  me.  1  shall  try 
to  bear  it  like  a  man." 

"  That's  right,  Abel.  I'm  glad  to  hear 
you  say  that ;  but  don't  forget  to  look  to 
God  for  help." 

When  Bow  Bells  struck  twelve,  the  old 
man  was  sleeping  like  a  child ;  and  Abel, 
watching  him,  saw  a  smile  of  ineffable 
peace  steal  over  his  face, —  a  still,  holy  smile, 
while  his  lips  parted  in  a  few,  low,  broken 
words :  "  I'm  ready.  Top's  ready  ;  give  me 
your  hand,  mistress,  an'  Abel  '11  come  after 
us."  Then,  without  sighing  or  moving,  he 
ceased  to  breathe ;  and  the  smile «cttle<l  over 
his  kind  old  face,  touching  it  into  childish 
calm  and  simplicity. 

The  dawn  of  the  day,  the  da^^Rhat  was 
to  have  witnessed  his  marriage,  tiiund  Aljel 
sitting  motionless  by  the  bed,  holding  the 
gentle  old  hand  in  his,  and  looking  with  a 
sort  of  stupor  into  the  plain,  wrinkled  face 


mt- 


J 


88 


BOPES  OF  SAND. 


I 


that  had  always  s>hono  with  love  and  kind- 1 
ncss  tor   him.     The   ton  It   airuction,  the  ) 
really  sympathy,  the  patient,  unwaveriiij; 
love  i>l'  his  lite,  was  gone ;  and  he  was  alone 
and  in  trouble. 


CHAPTER  Vir. 

A   TEURIDLE    INJUSTICE. 


The  pleaaantest  of  all  pleasant  June 
mornings !  The  sun  is  turniu}?  the  smoke 
into  a  ;;()l(len  mist ;  the  fresh  wind  shakin<? 
down  showei-s  of  blossoms  from  every  tree  . 
and  shrub,  the  birds  sin^'ing,  the  diildren 
laujihin;,',  the  parks  and  gardens  lull  of 
merry,  lii.'lit-hearted  strollers:  the  whole 
city  is  alive  with  gayety  and  excitement ;  for 
it  is  the  carnival  of  London  !  it  is  "  Derby 

Dny!" 

Ill  a  small,  neatly-furnished  room  in  a 
clean  court  out  of  Little  Eastcheap,  near  an 
open   window   filled   with   geraniums   and 
loses,  at  a  table  covered  with  books,  sits 
Abel    Winter,  reading  attentively,     lie  is 
very  thin  and  pale;  and  his  face  has  an 
expres.-i(m   of   patient    seriousness   which 
cannot  be  called  sorrow  ;  his  dress  of  deep 
mourning,  though  plain,  is  scrupulously  ne.at 
and  precise,  and  his  manner  that  of  a  man 
■who  lives  within  himself,  asking  little  and 
expecting  little   from  those    around   him. 
There  are  no  signs  of  luxury  in  the  room, 
except  in  books  and  ilowers.    The   win- 
dows, and  two  or  three  stands,  arc  filled 
with    choice    plants,   and    pots  of  sweet 
P.irma  violets;   and  books  are   scattered 
i'.round  on  shelves,  tables,  and  chairs,  in 
that  careless  fashion  which  shows  that  they 
are    constant    and    ^miliar    companions. 
There  is  a  tap  at  the  door;  and  Abel  lifts 
his  heaflknd  shuts  his  book  with  a  lingering 
trlanee,  as  though  unwilling  to  leave  it,  as 
his  landlady  enters  with  his  breakfast. 

"  I'm  a  little  late  this  mornin',"  she  says, 
in  a  pleasant,  u-iarty  voice;  "but  it's  not 


my  fault  in  the  least.  It's  the  boy  as  is  he- 
hind  time  with  the  milk  ;  an'  he  said  as  how 
it  wasn't  his  fault  neither,  'cause  nothin's 
reg'lar  on  Uarby  Day." 

"  Never  mind,  Mrs.  IJattle.  I've  an  hour 
yet  be  tore  olliee-time ;  and  I'd  rather  read 
before  hreakfivst  than  alter:  the  brain's 
more  active  Avhen  the  stomach's  empty." 

"Are  they?  AVell,  1  don't  know  as  to 
that;  but  1  like  to  eat  before  I  do  much: 
I'm  iaint-like  if  I  don't." 

"  Well,  for  jihysical  labor  you  need  to; 
but  lor  mental,  that's  dilferenl,"  returned 
Abel  gravely,  as  ho  seated  himself  at  the 
table  with  his  book  still  in  his  hand. 

"  Lor  !  now,  Mr.  Winter,  I'm  no  scholard, 
an'  I  don't  undcrstaml  half  them  big  words 
you've  used;  but  do  just  put  down  your 
book  while  you  cat  your  breakfast.  I've 
heard  as  how  it  was  the  worst  thing  in  the 
world  for  the  digesters  to  read  when  you're 
eatin'." 

Abel  smiled  a  little,  sad  smile,  and  said 
he  belii'ved  it  was  considered  injurious, 
but  that  ho  had  never  felt  any  ill  ellects 
Irom  it. 

Mrs.  Battle  poured  out  his  coffee,  placed 
the  muffins  and  chops  conveniently  near 
him,  smoothed  the  table-cloth,  and  changed 
the  arrangement  of  his  knife  and  fork  sev- 
eral times,  and  then  lingered  as  if  loath  to 
cTo;  for  she  (piite  depended  upon  a  chat 
with  Abel  while  he  was  taking  his  break- 
fast: but  this  morning  he  seemed  less 
inclined  than  usual  to  listen  to  her  enter- 
taining remarks ;  for  he  divided  his  attention 
pretty  equally  between  his  book  and  his 
coffee. 

"Your  flowers  is  lookin'  tine  this 
mornin' ;  ain't  they,  Mr.  Winter  V  "  she  said 
at  length,  hovering  round  them,  and  i)ieking 
off  a  dead  leaf  here  and  there.  "  I  dusted 
'em  yesterday,  an'  drowned  'em  with 
water,  which  freshened  'em  up  amazin' :  an' 
them  vi'iets,  how  sweet  they  do  smell  1 
Why,  they  scent  the  room  like  a  garden." 
"  Yes :  they're  very  fragrant,  and  grow 
beautifully,"  replied  Abel  sadly  and  ab- 
stractedly, as  though  he  were  thinking  of 
1  something  else. 


s 


\ 


I 


A  TERRIBLE  INJUSTICE. 


89 


iO  boy  Hs  is  be- 
lie said  as  bow 
cause  nothin's 

.  I've  an  bour 
a\  ralhiT  real 
:  tbe  lirain's 
.li's  empty." 
I't  know  as  to 
)re  I  do  niucb : 

'  you  need  to; 
ent,"  returned 
biinsulf  at  tbe 
lis  band. 
I'm  no  Hcbobxrd, 
tbein  1)1;;  words 
put  down  your 
breaivfast.  I've 
rst  tliin;;  in  tbe 
!ad  when  you're 

smile,  and  said 
lered  injurious, 
t  any  ill  elleets 

is  coffee,  pbiced 
nveniently  near 
lb,  and  clian;^ed 
ifc  and  forlc  sev- 
ed  as  if  loatli  to 
}d  upon  a  chat 
lining  bis  break- 
be  seemed  less 
ten  to  ber  enter- 
idedbisattencion 
is  book  and  bis 

lokin'  lino  tbis 
'inter  V  "  she  said 
liem,  and  jueking 
Iiere.  "1  dusted 
iwned  'era  with 
1  up  amazin' :  an' 
tbey  do  smell  1 
»  like  a  garden." 
grant,  and  grow 
ul  sadly  anil  ab- 
wcre  thinking  of 


I  t 


"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Winter,  that  it's 
just  fimr  years  ago  to-day  since  you  come 
here  ?  "  saitl  Mrs.  Battle,  with  tbe  door  in 
ber  fingers,  as  if  it  bad  just  occurred  to 
her  as  she  was  going  out,  when  really  she 
h.id  been  thinking  of  it  ever  since  she  en- 
tered the  room. 

"  Yes  :  I  remember  it  loo  well,"  returned 
Abel  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  don't  forget  it,  'cause  it  was  a  awful 
day  for  me.  First,  in  the  mornin'  early,  I 
hciiril  as  bow  my  Cousin  Betsy's  little  lM)y 
was  drowned  in  a  wash-tub  down  in  Sus- 
sex. Then  straight  upon  that  bad  news 
comes  more,  —  for  cats  never  die  but  kittens 
do,  —  a'  aunt  o'  my  husband's  mother  had 
to  drop  down  sudden  that  very  time,  an' 
never 'sjieak  again  ;  an'  it  was  a  great  dis- 
appointment too,  'cause  she  had  property, 
an'  died  afore  she  bad  time  to  make  'er 
will,  an'  my  poor  man  never  got  a  penny ; 
an'  goodness  knows  ho  needed  it  bad 
enough  !  Then,  just  as  my  eyes  was  as  red 
as  a  lobster  with  cryin',  an'  I  burryin'  like 
mad  to  get  your  rooms  ready  for  you  an' 
your  bride,"  (Abel  winced),  —  "  tryin'  to 
make  'em  neat  an'  pleasant-like,  you  come 
all  in  deep  mournin',  pale  as  a  sheet,  an' 
tells  me  that  you'd  lost  her  sudden,  an' 
shouldn't  need  four  rooms,  but  would  take 
two  all  the  same.  I  can't  never  (brget 
what  a  shock  it  was,  along  of  not  lettin'  all 
ray  rooms,  and  a-thinkin'  that  every  one 
was  a-dyin'  sudden  ;  for  no  one  would  never 
a  thought  it  of  that  young  pretty  cretur' 
as  come  with  you  one  evenin'  to  look  at  the 
rooms." 

"  Please  don't  speak  of  it,  Mrs.  Battle  : 
I  can't  bear  to  be  reminded  of  that  dread- 
ful time." 

"Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Winter. 
I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelin's ;  I  was 
only  just  a-lbinkin'  bow  long  you'd  lived 
all  alone  an'  in  mournin' !  an'  how  much 
happier  you'd  be  if  you  had  a  wife  to 
keep  you  company,  an'  to  dust  your  books, 
an'  tend  to  your  flowers  I '' 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Battle  ;  you're  very 
kind  ;  but  I  never  shall  have  a  wife.  I'm 
contented  as  I  am.    I'm  sure  you  don't 


mind  taking  care  of  my  things ;  and  I'm 
(piito  satisfied." 

"  An' I  am,  too,  Mr.  Winter,  for  that  mat- 
ter. You're  a'  excellent  lodger  as  ever  wa,<i : 
so  quiet  an'  no  trouble,  as  I've  oflen  told  my 
man,  an'  always  wipes  your  feet,  an'  dim't 
i'orget  there's  a  scraper  at  tbe  street-door: 
still,  it  seems  to  mo  you're  kiml  o'  lonely- 
like,  for  all." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Battle:  I  don't  think  I  am. 
Books  and  flowers  are  pleasant  compan- 
ions." 

"  Yes,  I  s'jKjse  them  are  for  scholars ; 
but  there's  peo])le  as  needs  human  bein's 
round  'em  to  sort  o'chirk  'em  up  a  bit.  Now, 
Mr.  Winter,  instead  o'  settiu'  here  alone, 
an'  puzzlin'  over  them  books,  which  is  like 
deal  men's  bones,  dry  an'  mouldy,  why 
don't  you  go  to  the  Darby  ?  Everybody's 
goin',  an'  it's  a  day  like  we  don't  often 
have.  It'd  do  you  a  deal  o'  good. 
Me  an'  my  man'll  bo  startiii'  in  a'  bour. 
We've  a  pickled  tongue,  a  slice  o'  bam,  an' 
bread  an'  ale,  with  a  'alf  of  a  cold  chicken, 
for  a  lunch.  There's  a  plenty  for  you, 
if  you'd  like  to  go  an'  take  a  bite  along  of 
us." 

"Thank  you  kindly,  Mrs.  Battle;  but  I 
haven't  a  holiday  :  there's  a  deal  to  be  done 
in  the  oflice ;  for  young  Mr.  Tborjie  goes  to 
the  r.iees,  and  we're  behindhand  in  our 
work." 

"  Oh !  that's  a  pity  to  shut  yourself  up 
to-day.  Now,  Mr.  Winter,  if  you  don't  mind, 
I'll  pick  up  a  bit,"  said  Mrs.  Battle, 
clearing  away  the  breakfast  things  before 
Abel  had  fairly  swallowed  bis  last  cup  of 
coffee ;  "  for,  you  see,  I  must  fly  round  to  get 
things  tidied  up  before  1  go,  an'  my  man's 
so  unpatient  if  I'm  late." 

"  I'm  going  out  directly,  Mrs.  Battle," 
said  Abel,  taking  up  his  bat.  "  So  you  can 
hurry  all  you  wish.  Good-morning,  and  a 
pleasant  day." 

"He's  always  nice  an'  civil  spoken," 
soliloiiuized  Mrs.  Battle,  as  the  door  closed 
upon  the  young  man  ;  "  but  I'm  glad  he's 
gone,  'cause  I  can  clatter  the  things  as 
much  as  I  like,  an'  I  can  work  a  deal  faster 
when  1  caa  make  a  noise.    It's  the  only 


40 


ROPES  OF  BAND. 


tliinj;  lie's  the  least  fiii«!iy  about,  is  noise ; 
an*  he  ilo  Wkii  to  he  still  as  well  as  any  one 
1  ever   see.     How   awful    pale  he   turned 
•when    I  spoke   of   his  trouVile  I      Lor  I    I 
thought    tiiere  wasn't   the   inan  born  as'tl 
remember  a  woman  a  month  after  she  was 
<lcacl.  let  alone  four  years,  and  never  take 
off  his  hat-band  neithi-r.     I've  nl'ays  won- 
dereil  what  killed  her,  whether  it  was  a  fit, 
or  a  turn  o'  fever,  for  she  died  awfid  sudden ; 
but  I  never  can  draw  it  ont  o'  him,  he's  so 
dose-like.     Yon  mi;,'ht  as  well  try  to  <;et 
hair  otf  a'  «•<:!:;.  Any  way,  it  was  a'  awful 
stroke,  I'm    sure ;  for  I   used  to  hear  him 
ni.dits  a-walkin'  an'  walkin',  'till  I  thought 
he'd  wear  the  iloor  throu<,di.     Hut  now  lie's 
pot  (piii'ter,  and  reads  and  studies  more,  an' 
tends   his  llowers,  an'  lingers  round   them 
vi"lets  tender-like.   I  know  he  loves  'em  best 
of  all  his  plants  'eause  her  name  was  Vi'let ;  I 
heard  him  eall  her  that  the  ni^dit  they  eome 
to'iether  to  look  at  the  rooms.     Though  he's 
calmer  an'  stiller  now  than  he  used  to  be« 
still  I  believe  he  ain't  cured  yet;  'cause  he 
never  smiles  like  a  man  as  has  much  heart. 
Goodness  t  there's    my  man  a-bawlin'  for 
me  to  hurry,  as  thoujrh  he  thought  I  had  a 
do/en  jKiir  o"  hands,  :in' could  do  every  tiling 
in  a  iniiiit.     I'm  a-eomin',  I'm  a-c-omin'  in 
a  Hash,"  she  shouted,  seizing  the  tr.ay,  and 
hastening    ofl"  with   an   awful    clatter    of 
dishes  and  a  slipshod  sculRng. 

^Vhat  Mrs.  Battle  had  said  was,  for  the 
greater  ]iart,  true.    Abel,  after  having  buried 
jioor  Old  Top  resi)eetably  in  Kensal  Green, 
had  eome  there  dressed  in  deep  mourning, 
with  eyes  that  looked  as  though  they  were 
drained    of  tears,  and  a  face  so  i)alo  and 
wan  that  Airs.  Battle  declared  he  seemed 
more  like  a  ghost  than  a  living  man.     lie 
had  said  very    little,  only    giving  her    to 
understand,  that,  instead  of  a  happy  bride- 
prcKJUi,  lie  was  a  sorrow-stricken  lover,  who 
had  lost  the  object  of  his  aireclion  almost 
on  the  eve  of  his    marria-^e.     The    kind- 
hearted  woman  pitied  him,  and  respected  his 
grief,  though  she  was  aching  with  curiosity 
to  know  all   about  it ;  but  Abel's  reserve 
and  dignity  baffled  every  eflbrt  to  draw  him 
out  i  so  that  after  iour  years  she  knew  no 


more  of  the  particulars  of  his  loss  than  sLo 
did  the  first  day  that  he  came. 

In  less  than  a  year  afler  her  disappear- 
ance, ho  had  seen  Violet  twice.     The  first 
time  was  shortly  afler  Top's   death,  when 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  driving  in  Hyde 
Park.     She  was  dressed  in  silk  and  muslin, 
and  wore  a  fashionable  blue  bonnet.     The 
carriage,  her  dress,  explained  all :  she  had 
deserted  him  to  become  the  mistress  of  some 
wealthy  rival,  w'  o    gave  her  rich  dresses 
and  j'!wels.     He  had  suspected  and  feared 
it ;  but  now,  when  lie  knew  it  beyond  a  <loubt, 
ho  was  completely  beside  himself  with  rage 
and  indignation.    Not  knowing  what  he  did, 
he  followed    the  carriage,  running   like  a 
madman  in  the  hot  July  sun,  until  he  at- 
tr.acted  the  attention    of  the  p.assers,  who 
turned  and  hjoked  after  him,  saving  that  he 
had  escaped  from  an  asyliiin  ;  this  brought 
him  to  a  consciousness  of  his  ioWy  ;  and,  rush- 
ing into  the  shrubbery,  he  sank  exhausted 
and  (piiveriug  with  anguish  on   the   grass 
under  a  tree,  where  he  lay  with  his  face  to 
the  ground  <or  hours,  while  those  who  no- 
ticed him  thought  him   either  sleeping  or 
intoxicated.    AVhen  lie  was  calmer,  he  arose 
and  staggered  home ;  shutting  himself  in  his 
own  ro(jm,  he  wept,  and  moaned,  and  raved 
the  night  away,  forgetting  his  courage,  his 
manliness,  his  dignity,  his  promises  to  poor 
Old  Top,  in  the  one  maddening  thought,  that 
she  had  been  false  to  him,  and  was  happy, 
living    in  sin,  with    another.     After    that 
passionate  outburst,  with  a  feeling  that  the 
inevitable  must   be    endured,   he    becarao 
calmer  and  more  resigned.    Still,  with  the 
strange  inconsistency  of  the  human  heart, 
he  haunted  every  place  where  he  thought 
that  there  was  a  possibility  of  seeing  her, 
until  one  night  he  caught  another  glimpse 
of  her   in  the   crowd  around   the  door  of 
Covent  Garden   Theatre.     She    was  just 
stepping  into  her  carriage  ;  and  .ill  he  saw 
was  her  beautiful  tticc  and    head,  with  a 
cluster  of  pink  roses  in  her  brown  curls. 
Forgetting  himself,  tbrgetting  the  place  and 
the  people,  he  darted  forward,  and  cried  out 
in  bitter  distress,  •'  Violet,  Violet !  "     But 
the  crowd  drove  him  back,  scarce  noticing 


'¥' 


I) 


J 


A  TERRIBLE  INJUSTICE. 


41 


loss  tlmn  gko 

er  (lisa|»|)Oiir- 
!u.     The  first 

(k'iitli,  when 
iviiv^  in  llvile 
k  and  imi)<lin, 
lioniu't.     Tho 
1  iill :  iiliR  liiid 
istross  ot  sonio 
r  rich  dresses 
k>d  and  fi-ared 
cyoml  a  <louht, 
isclf  with  rage  • 
1^  whathiMlid, 
uniiin.i;   liiic  a 
1,  until  he  at- 
I  passers,  who 
aayin'i  that  he 
;  this  hroii<;ht 
illy ;  and,  rush- 
uik  exhausted 
on    the    grass 
ritli  his  t'aee  to 
those   who  no- 
ler  sleejiin'^  or 
aimer,  he  arose 
;  himself  in  his 
ued,  and  raved 
is  eourai^e,  his 
roniises  to  poor 
ig  lhouy;ht,  that 
,nd  was  happy, 
p.     After    that 
reeling  that  the 
d,   he   became 
Still,  with  tho 
I  Imnian  heart, 
ere  he  thought 
'  of  seeing  her, 
nother  glimpse 
id   the  door  of 
She    was  just 
and  all  he  saw 

head,  with  a 
■r  brown  eurls. 
ig  tho  plaeeand 
(1,  and  cried  out 
Violet !  "  But 
searce  notichig 


H     1     > 


I  ! 


his  pathetic  cry,  so  eager  was  each  person 
to  extricate  himself  from  the  i)ress,  while 
the  strong  arm  and  menacing  cliih  of  a  po- 
liceman prevented  him  from  reaching  her 
in  s[iite  of  the  most  frantic  elVorts.  While  he 
struggled  in  vain,  the  carriage  drove  away, 
and  was  lost  to  sight  among  the  hundreds 
of  otlier  vehiiles  that  tilled  tho  throngeil 
street.  After  tliat,  ho  went  constantly  to 
the  same  places,  hut  he  never  saw  her  again. 
In  those  two  brief  glances  he  had  learned 
that  tho  flesires  of  licr  girliiood  were  grat- 
ified,—  that  she  had  jewels,  rich  dre.sses, 
and  a  carriage,  and  went  to  the  play  like  a 
fine  lady.  When  ho  thought  of  it  all  lie. 
abliorred  lier;  and,  grinding  Ids  teeth,  he 
woulil  say  with  terrible  vindictiveness, 
"  She's  twisting  her  ropes  of  sand !  she's 
twisting  lier  ropes  of  sand  !  and  by  and  by 
they  '11  break,  and  leave  her  a  wreck.  "  I$ut 
as  time  passed  olF,  and  he  did  not  see  her 
again,  his  feelings  softened  toward  her  ;  and 
he  began  to  think  of  her  as  we  think  of 
those  who  have  sinned  against  us  and  are 
dead,  with  pity  and  forgiveness,  wishing 
again  that  she  would  come  back  to  hini 
lienitont,  that  ho  might  show  her  the  en- 
durance of  his  love  and  tenderness. 

The  day  after  "  Derby,"  Abel  was  at  his 
desk,  when  Robert  Thorpe  came  in,  look- 
ing pale,  heavy-eyed,  and  jaded.  Only 
noticing  his  companion  with  a  curl  "  Goixl- 
niorning,"  ho  throw  himself  into  his  chair, 
leaned  his  elbows  on  his  desk,  and,  dropping 
his  head  into  his  hands,  he  remained  for  a 
long  time  in  dee])  thought.  At  last  ho 
looked  up  with  a  weary  sigh ;  and,  drawing 
a  pile  of  letters  towards  him,  he  began  to 
open  them,  glancing  over  them,  and  hastily 
flinging  them  aside  impatiently,  as  thougli 
the  least  labor  were  unendurable. 

"  Are  you  not  well  this  morning,  Mr. 
Thori>eV"  said  Abel,  after  watching  him 
for  a  few  moments. 

"  Thank  you,  I'm  well  enough,  as  far  as 
my  health  goes ;  but  I'm  awfully  bothered 
in  my  mind.  To  tell  you  tho  truth,  Win- 
ter, I  bet  too  heavy  yesterday,  anil  lost :  it's 
like  my  cursed  luck  1  and  tho  governor  is 
as  hard  as  a  mill-stone  this  morning.    I've 


been  going  over  some  little  items  with  him; 
and  I  swear  if  he  (h)n't  think  I'm  extrava- 
gant,—  says  I'm  too  (lush,  and  spend  more 
than  I  ought  to  of  the  profits ;  but  what's 
the  use  of  being  partner  in  a  house  like 
this,  and  working  like  a  dog,  if  one  can't 
spend  a  iiiuind  without  accounting  li»r  it. 
I  declare,  I'd  rather  work  on  a  salary  as 
you  do:  ilien  I  could  dis{K)se  of  my  money 
as  I  liked." 

Just  then  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door; 
and  a  clerk,  pulling  in  his  head,  saiil,  •♦  A 
man  to  see  Mr.  Itobert  Tlior|)e." 

*•  Show  him  in,"  returned  Robert  griiflly. 

Abel  looked  up,  as  a  common,  low- 
browed, evil-eyed  Jew  entered  ;  but,  under- 
standing that  ho  h.id  private  business  with 
his  employer,  he  bent  over  the  invoice  ho 
was  copying,  and  paid  no  attention  to  the 
new-comer. 

When  Robert  Thorpe  saw  who  tho  per- 
son was,  his  lace  flushed  with  anger  and 
niortilied  priile.  Rising,  ho  ojiened  tho 
door  of  a  small  cabinet,  which  was  seldom 
used  by  Mr.  Thorpe,  iw  all  his  jirivate  busi- 
ne^s  was  transacted  in  the  luesenco  of 
Abel,  and  desired  the  evidently  unwelcome 
visitor  to  enter.  They  remaineil  closeted 
for  some  time,  in  a  very  loud  and  stormy 
interview  ;  for  Abel  occasionally  heard  the 
words,  "Derby,"  "betting,"  "interest," 
"  security,"  and  so  on,  bandied  about  be- 
tween tho  disputants. 

At  last  the  Jew  came  out  with  a  cun-- 
ning  glitter  of  satisfaction  in  his  snaky 
eyes,  and  glided  away  without  a  word; 
while  Robert  took  his  seat  at  his  desk, 
pale,  and  trembling  with  angry  excite- 
ment. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  long  time.  Abel 
eojiied  attentively  ;  and  Mr.  Robert  read 
and  re-read  iiis  letters,  without  understand- 
ing their  contents,  so  confused  was  he  by 
the  Jew's  visit. 

At  last  he  started  up,  and  said,  "It's 
no  use  :  I  can't  do  any  thing  to-day.  That 
infernal  Jew's  upset  me.  You'll  have  to  go 
over  the  correspondence.  Winter;  and,  for 
Heaven's  sake  I  see  that  every  thing's  right; 
because  the  governor'll  be  in  to-morrow. 


fcwiiiiaiiriwriri  wtimiM»iiiiiiii'iifi'M  ph  m  n 


42 


ROPES  OP  SAND, 


if 

V 


He's  getting  over  liis  attack,  and  lie's  al- 
ways  cross-;,'rivine(l     and   I'nssy   nftor ;    bo 
look  out  lliiit  tiir^  straisjiht.     I'm  iioing  to 
the  I'lub.  to  rest  a  while  ;  and  I  shan't  Im 
back  to-day.     If  Lloyd's  man  comi's  in,  pay 
him  ninety-thn-o   i)otnidH,  seventeen    >^liil- 
l„,^s,  — a  private  liill.  I'll  put  it  in  the  safe  ;" 
and,  as  he  si)oke,he  folded  a  nunildT  of  notes 
in  an  cnvi'lopi'.and.openins  a  safe  useil  tode- 
])0:<it»niall  amounts, he  placed  tliepaekaj^e  in 
it,  and  closed  the  door  with  a  nharp  banj?. 
Ahel  was  lookin<;  at  him ;  and  he  remem- 
bered the  violence  with  which  he  shut  the 
door,  and  the  expression  of  his  face,  lon;^ 
atU'r.     Then,  takinj^  his  hat  and  cane,  he 
walked  out,  tellin;,'  the  clerks  in  the  outer 
oflice,  as  he  passed,  that  he  should  not  be 
back  ni.'ain  for  the  day. 

Alter  he  had  gone,  Abel  sat  fi)r  a  lon;^ 
time  in  deep  thought.  Something  was 
wrong  with  Mr.  Uobcrt  Thorpe  :  he  had 
feared  it  for  some  time ;  but  lie  had  liked 
him  so  well,  that  he  would  not  acknowledge 
it,  even  to  himself.  Now  the  Jew's  visit 
liad  confirmed  liis  worst  susi)icions.  He  was 
involved  in  debt,  and  his  father  knew  noth- 
ing of  if.  and,  that  he  might  not  learn  of 
his  folly,  he  had  gone  to  tliis  unprincipled 


It  was  very  lato  when  Abel  left  the  oflTicc, 
as  he  had  double  duty  to  i)erform.     All  the 
other  clerks  had  gone  long  before ;  ami  he 
let  himself  out,  as  he  always  diil,  by  a  small 
rear  door  that  led  through  the  warehouse 
into  a  narrow,  covered  passage,  which  -on- 
ducted  to  the  street.     As  ho  passed  out 
some  one  was  loaning  against  the  wall  near 
the  door,  who,  when  ho  approached,  moved 
toward  him,  and  then  drew  back  hastily, 
and   remained    motionless.     "  It    is    some 
houseless  creature  who  has  sought  a  shelter 
here,"  ho  thought,  as  lie  hurried  out  into 
the  half  light  of  Lower  Thames  Street. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Thorpe  came 
into  town  early.  He  was  weak  and  thin 
from  a  severe  attack  of  gout;  and  Abel 
thought  that  he  had  never  seen  him  look- 
ing so  poorly.  Mr.  llobert  was  at  his 
diTsk  working  dilijiently  when  his  father 
entered.  He  got  up,  shook  hands  allection- 
ately,  and  inquired  about  his  health. 

"  I'm  better,  thank  you,"  returned  Mr. 
Thorpe ;  "  but  I'm  weak,  nuserably  weak, 
and  fit  for  nothing.  Why  didn't  you  come 
home  last  night,  Robert?  I  was  alono  all 
the  evening." 

"  I'm  sorry,  sir ;  but  I  stopped  at  my  club, 


his   o  IV,  lie  nail   jioiie  lu  imo  uin.i...-.| »■  --  , 

„.onev-i:.nder  to  Ixtrieate  himself.    Then,    and  went  to  bed  early.    I  was  so  used  up 
his  pale  face    and  jailed  air   told  of  late    and  tired." 


hours  and  dissipation.  He  had  neglected 
his  bu^illess,  injured  his  heallli,  and  sijuan- 
dered  his  money ;  and  his  father,  in  igno- 
rance of  it,  triisti'd  his  most  imjwrtant 
interests  to  him.  "  How  will  this  all  end  'i  " 
thought  Abel.  "  Perhaps  it's  my  duty  to 
tell  Mr.  Thorpe  my  tears.  But  how  can  I, 
how  can  1  go  to  my  employer,  and  com 


"Tired,  wore  you?  Why,  was  there 
more  to  do  yesterday  than  usual  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Robert,  looking  fur- 
tively at  Abel,  who  was  bending  over  his 
desk,  apparently  absorbed  in  bis  work, 
though  in  reality  be  heard  every  word  of 
the  conversation. 

"  But  you  manage  to  keep  every  thing 


how  can  i  iro  lo  mv  eiiiTn"y<^i,  "••"  >-"■"  j  ■=     „..      ,-   -,     ,„, 

plarof  a  so;  that  he  loves  to  i.lolatiy ?    straight  between  you?"  said  Mr.  Thorpe, 
1  eaii't  do  it.    I  must  go  on,  as  I've  been    glancing  at  Abel. 


doing,  working  for  him  like  a  slave ;  for  I 
j.iiy  him,  and  like  him,  and  I  can't  betray 
him.  For  near  five  years  I've  devoted 
myself  to  him,  been  patient  enough,  God 
knows!  under  his  exacting  commands; 
shielded  him,  and  excused  him,  in  a  hun- 
dred ways :  and  what  have  1  got  for  it  ?  a 
pleasant  smile,  a  kind  word  now  and  then 


"  CerUinly,  sir  1  Winter's  invaluable  in 
an  emergency;  but  I'm  afraid  he's  over- 
worked." 

"  Ah  1  you  young  men  don't  know  what 
work  is,"  returned  Mr.  Thorpe  a  little  fret- 
fully. "  Why,  afler  my  fathec  died,  all  the 
business  came  upon  lue ;  and  it  was  as  large 
then  as  it  is  now,  for  it  hasn't  increased 


pleasant  smile,  a  Kinu  worn  iiu«  «"u  I.-... -  .  „„  i  i  ,i;,i  nlnnn 

Ifs  a  m vsterv  why  1  should  like  him,  when    any  these  last  tour  J'^'^"  •  ""'l  J  ""f, 
Iknow  heis'nnprincipled;  but  still  I  do."  1  as  much  work  as  you  and  Abel  do  together. 


.l)(!l  left  the  office, 
pt'rf'oriii.     All  the 
ij;  bi'lliro ;  iintl  he 
jH  dill,  by  a  onmll 
:;h  the  waichimse 
issii;;e,  which  "on- 
^8  ho  passed  out 
inst  thi!  wall  near 
pproaihed,  moved 
rew  l)U(k  hastily, 
ss.     "  It    is    some 
as  sought  a  shelter 
!  hurried  out  into 
riiaines  Street, 
ilr.   Thorpe   came 
us  weak  and  thin 
f  t;out;  and   Abel 
ver  seen  liim  look- 
Lobert   was   at  his 
y  when   his  father 
jok  hands  aiVection- 
it  his  health. 
foa,"  returned  Mr. 
ik,  miserably  weak, 
hy  didn't  you  come 
t  V    1  was  alone  all 

[  stopped  at  my  club, 
I  was  so  used  up 

Why,  was  there 
han  usual  ?  " 
Robert,  looking  fur- 
as  bending  over  his 
arbcd  in  his  work, 
leard  every  word  of 

to  keep  every  thing 
?"  said  Mr.  Thorpe, 

'^inter's  invaluable  in 
['m  afraid  he's  over- 

nen  don't  know  what 
r.  Thorpe  a  little  fret- 
iiy  fathec  died,  all  the 
e  ;  and  it  was  as  large 
)r  it  hasn't  increased 
L-ars  :  and  1  did  alone 
ind  Abel  do  together." 


A  TERRinLK  INJUSTICE. 


43 


"  Well.  1  don't  understand  it ;  I'm  sure 
I'm  not  idle,"  .<ai(|  Uobert,  wiiii  uninistiik- 
al)le  dissatisfaction;  "and  Winter  works 
like  a  horse." 

Alii'l  i(H>kediip  f;ratefully,  and  was  about 
to  speak,  when  there  was  a  tap  at  the  <UM)r, 
niid  a  clerk  enlerin;^,  said,  "  A  man  from 
I.lovil's  with  a  bill." 

'■  'I'lien  ho  ilidn't  come  yesterday  V  "  and 
ItiljiTt  imlo<-keil  the  safe  as  he  spoke. 

••  Xo,  sir,"  replied  Abel. 

••  Where's  the  uioney  V  It  is  not  liere," 
said  Robert,  lurnin;;;  with  a  blanched  face. 

'•  I  don't  know,"  replied  Al)el,  risin.: 
from  his  seat.  "  I  saw  you  put  some  money 
there  yestenlaj"  before  you  went  out,  an<l 
I've  not  seen  it  since.  The  man  didn't  come, 
and  I  had  no  occasion  to  open  the  safe." 

'•  l$y  Jove  1  that's  strange,"  e,\clainied 
Robert,  ;^lancing  from  his  father  to  AIm;!. 
"  There's  no  one  that  has  a  key  to  the  sale, 
but  my  father,  you,  and  I." 

"  Tell  the  man  to  wait  a  moment,"  said 
^Ir.  Thorpe  to  the  clerk,  who  still  stood  at 
the  door  all  eyes  and  mouth.  "  (iive  him  a 
elieclc  (or  the  amount,  Robert,  and  send  the 
messenger  away  ;  then  we  will  look  into 
this  matter,"  he  aiMcd,  turning  toward  his 
sou  a  ])uzzled,  troubled  face. 

While  Robert  Thorpe  wrote  his  signa- 
ture to  the  draft  with  a  very  unsteady 
hand,  Abel  stood  watchin'^  him  in  a  dazed 
sort  of  a  way,  scarce  comprehending  the 
magnitude  of  the  suspicion  that  had  fallen 
upon  liim. 

"  Now  pray  explain  this  to  me,"  said 
Mr.  Thorpe,  when  the  man  had  finally 
withdrawn  with  the  check ;  "  for  I  must 
coni'css  I  don't  quite  understand  such  an 
irre;jular  proceeding." 

"  It's  very  easy  to  explain,  sir,"  returned 
Robert,  still  very  pale  and  nervous.  "  1 
owed  a  bill  iit  Lloyd's,  a  private  bill ;  and  1 
cxpecte<l  the  man  to  call  yesterdfvy.  I  put 
the  amount,  which  I  happened  to  have  by 
me,  into  the  safe,  telling  Winter  if  the  man 
eamu  to  pay  it  to  him.  He  did  not  come 
yesterday  ;  but  this  morning  he  comes.  1 
open  the  safe  :  the  money  is  gone.  No  one 
has  the  key  but  you,  myselll  and  Winter. 


II<!  was  the  last  one  In  the  office  yesterday, 
and  the  first  one  this  mornin^t!  vet  he  says 
that  he  knows  nothing  about  it." 

"  Do  you  dare  to  say  tliat  I  do  ?  "  cried 
Abel,  turning  toward  Robert  Thorpe  with 
a  face  as  white  as  marble,  and  eyes  that 
glowed  like  fire. 

"  Yes,  certainly ;  who  else  but  you  can 
know  any  thing  about  itY  " 

"  Vou  are  a  liar  I  You  know  I've  never 
seen  the  money,"  shouted  .Vbel  at  the  top 
of  his  voice,  utterly  forgetting  himself  in 
his  indignation. 

Poor  fellow !  he  had  not  come  from  a 
good  stock  ;  so  lie  lacked  the  Jine.ise  that 
teaches  better-bred  people  to  (Control  their 
temper  in  every  enieri;ency. 

"  Mr.  Winter"  (the"  Mr. '  was  ominous), 
said  Mr.  Thorpe  slowly  and  sternly,  "  that 
will  do.  You  have  forgotten  yoursi'lf :  you 
have  insulted  your  employer,  and  my  son." 

"  He  insulted  me  first,"  returned  Abel 
angrily. 

"  Leave  us  alone,  my  son  :  we'll  settle 
this  between  us,"  and  Mr.  Thorpe  motioned 
to  Robert  to  (juit  the  nxim. 

As  the  young  man  went  out  ho  looked 
back  with  a  strange  expression  on  his  f  ice, 
— an  ex[)ression  that  Abel  remembered  long 
after;  and  the  remembrance  of  it  .softened 
his  animosity  wluin  the  first  bitterness  of 
the  wrong  had  passed  away. 

When  his  son  h.td  gone,  Mr.  Thorpe 
turned  a  troubled  face  toward  Abel,  and 
said,  in  a  voice  of  mingled  jiity  aiul  en- 
treaty, "  I'm  sorry  for  this,  Abel.  For 
God's  sake  1  can't  you  explain  it?  If  you 
needed  the  money,  and  took  it,  say  so  at 
once;  and  I'll  overlook  it.  I'll  promise  you 
I  will." 

"  Do  you  believe  me  capable  of  such  a 
thing,  Mr.  Thorpe  ?"  asked  Abel  with  a 
strange  calmness. 

"I'm  unwilling  to;  but  what  can  I 
think  ?  Robert  put  the  money  there  :  you 
saw  him.  He  went  away,  and  left  you 
here  ;  and,  when  he  returns,  the  money  is 
gone.  No  one  else  but  you  and  he 
have  keys  to  the  sat'*!,  or  even  to  the  room. 
Nothing  else  is  disturbed :  no  other  person 


Mjii'WMIUJI.^  ■a.U-lgj'm*!  WW 


rl 


44 


ROPES  OF  SAND. 


cnn  have  taken  It.     You  »eo  It'n  n-^aiiist  i 
you. 

"Yc!";  luce  it  ic,"  ri'fiirtiiil  llio  poor  fi'l- 
Idw,  tri'iiililiii'.!  ill  cvoiy  iiinli  an  liix  anijir 
(Iiivi-  wiiy  to  llic  {iriff  of  licinv;  mispi'ctcil 
by  tlic  man  wlio  had  tnislt'd  liim  imfj  bi'- 
fricndi'il  him  nlway.*.  "  Still,  .Mr.  Tlior[)o, 
you  know  nm  ko  well,  I  iilionld  liop(>,  tlint 
no  HUHpiciouM  circinns'fani'o  coiilil  i'lian;;i' 
your  i;o(>d  opinion  of  inc." 

"  IJut  wliiit  can  I  do?  It  lies  In'twcon 
you  and  Uobcrt.  I  can't  accuse  my  con  : 
it  lies  between  you  two. 

"  'riien  he  is  ;;uilly  ;  for  I  am  not." 
"How  dare  you  say  that  in  my  pres- 
ence Y  "  f<lioute(l  the  old  gentleman  furi- 
ously. Then  lie  calmed  hinmelfaiid  said, 
"  But  I'm  an  idiot  to  lose  my  temper  with 
you;  there's  no  excuse  for  me.  He  reason- 
able, Al)el,  and  think  of  tlie  absurdity  of 
such  a  siipjiosition.  What  would  induce 
Mr.  l^>llert 'I'hoipe  to  steal  the  pitiful  sum 
of  ninety-three  pounds  from  liimself?  " 

"  I  diin't  know.  I  know  nothiii'^  about  it- 
I  never  have  sci'n  the  money.  You  know 
it ;  and  lie  knows  it  too.  I've  worked  day 
and  iii<xbt  for  him.  I've  served  him  faith- 
fully. I've  made  myself  a  slave  to  him, 
and  ibis  is  iht^  return.  H**  accuses  me  of 
stealin;,'  a  paltry  sum  of  money !  "  here  the 
poor  fellow  broke  down  ;  and,  sinkinir  into 
a  diair,  be  wept  violently. 

Mr.  Thorpe  wat<hcd  him  with  a  pain- 
fully puzzh'd,  pitying  look,  thinking;  to  him- 
self, "  I  can't  believe  he's  guilty :  I  really 
can't." 

At  last  Abel  started  up ;  and,  dashing 
off  the  tears,  lie  cried  out  in  iiard,  angry 
tones,  "  I'll  never  tbrgive  him  :  I  never  will ! 
He  shall  suffer  if  he  don't  take  that  back." 
"  Calm  j-oiir.self,  Abel,  and  listen  to  rea- 
son. I  can't  think  you've  done  it.  I  really 
can't,  thouixh  every  thing's  against  you. 
I'd  rather  lose  a  hundred  times  that  sum 
than  to  accuse  you.  I'll  replace  it.  I'll 
speak  to  my  son,  and  you  must  apologize  to 
him  ffir  what  you  said ;  you  really  must. 
Tlien,  I  think,  we  can  let  every  thing  go  on 
as  usual,  and,  perhaps,  in  time,  the  matter 
will  be  explained." 


•'  What  t  You  think  I'll  stay  here  and 
go  on  the  same  with  that  siisjiicion  resting 
upon  me'?  And  that  I'll  apoloyrize  to  Mr. 
Hobert'?  No,  Mr.  Thorpe  :  I'll  ilo  neither. 
You've  been  good  to  me,  sir ;  once,  when  I 
was  in  dreadl'iil  trouble,  you  were  kind  to 
me,  and  I  don't  forget  it;  liut  now  you  ask 
too  much.  No  ;  I'll  not  work  for  you  an- 
other <liiy.  I'll  starve  first."  With  this 
he   took  his  hat  and  rushed  out  of  t'r."  rear 


door,  beibro  Mr.  Thorpe  could  say  another 
woid. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


I.EKT   TO    HIMSELF. 


For    several   days    after  the    unhappy 
aH'air    in    Mr.    Thorpe's    office,  Abel  re- 
mained at  home  in  his  room,  shutting  him- 
self up,  rcfufiiig  food  and  the  kindly  atten- 
tions of  Mrs. Battle,  who  thought  he  was  ill, 
and  declared  it  to  be  the  result  of  his  por- 
ing over  his  liooks  while  ho  was  taking  his 
meals.     She  was  not  wrong  in  su()posing 
that  he    was   suffering,  though   the   cause 
was   a   very  different  one  from   what  she 
imagined;   for  in  his  deepest  trouble    he 
had  never  been  through  darker  hours  than 
these.     The  worst  feelings   in  his   nature 
were  .aroused  :   every  vindictive,  cruel  pas- 
sion, that  until   now    had  lain    dormant, 
started   into    action    at  this   provocation. 
\Vhatev(!r    of   evil    his    mother    had   be- 
iiueathcd  to  him  was  stirred  up  against  the 
perpetr.ator  of  this  bitter   wrong.     In  his 
other  troubles  ho  had  been  gentle  and  pa- 
tient, enduring  all   with  a  quiet  courage 
worthy  of  a  superior  nature.     But  now  his 
heart  was  seething  hot  with  hate  and  re- 
venge toward  the   man   who  had  accused 
him  so  unjustly,  who  had  ruined  him  with 
a  word ;  and  the  most  unbearable 'part  of  it 
was  that  lie  had  loved  his  enemy,  had  de- 
voted  bis  best  feelings   to  him,  his   most 
earnest  endeavors,  the  very  treshness  and 
strength  of  his  IjJ'e.    Virtually  he  had  been 


1 


^ 


LEFT  TO  HIMSELF. 


45 


dtny  Ihtc  antl 
iHjiii'inn  ri'ntln}; 
Kilovrizn  to  Mr. 
I'll  ilo  rifiihiT. 
• ;  onci',  wlicn  I 
1  yu'Vi'  kitiil  to 
lUt  now  you  link 
)rk  Cor  you  nn- 
dt."    With   tliU 

out  of  til"  rciir 
ul(i  Bay  anuthur 


HI. 

ELF. 

r  the  unhappy 
ofHce,  AIk'I  re- 
in, sliuttin;^  liini- 
;lic  kindly  atten- 
uu;:;lit  111!  vrna  ill, 
result  of  Ills  por- 

0  was  taking  Iiis 
ng  in  8U[)po8ing 
ough  the  causo 

from  wliat  sho 
>pe9t  trouble  ho 
arker  hours  than 
;s  in  his  nature 
ictive,  cruel  pas- 

1  lain  dormant, 
this  provocation, 
mother  had  be- 
ud  up  against  the 
r  wrong.  In  his 
m  gentle  and  pa- 
a  quiet  courage 
re.  But  now  his 
yith  hate  and  re- 
who  had  accused 

ruined  him  with 
)oarable'part  of  it 
is  enemy,  had  de- 
to  him,  his  most 
ery  Jreshncss  and 
ually  he  had  been 


^ 


hix  !<lava,  toiling  for  him  day  and  night, 
anil  ri'cciving  birt  a  scanty  pittance  in  r(!- 
turn,  studying  his  interest  more  lliaii  his 
own,  wearing  out  health  and  strength  in 
his  service,  making  every  I'llnrt  to  save 
hiiu  from  censure,  lilinding  his  own  tUtlier 
tu  his  tiiults,  and  enduring  lilanu;  patiently 
that  he  might  sutler  no  reproof.  In  short, 
he  had  sacrificed  himself  day  by  day,  night 
by  ni^lit,  to  be  of  service  to  this  man  who 
had  so  cruelly  accused  him  on  the  first  oc- 
casion for  suspicion  ;  and  for  what  motive 
he  coulil  not  divine.  His  anger  against 
his  enemy  made  him  see  his  faults  in  the 
worst  light,  iind  ho  now  encouraged  con- 
jectures which  he  never  would  have  ad- 
mitted before  :  he  began  to  doubt  liis  honor. 
Only  Ilobert  Thorpe  himself  could  have 
witliilrawn  the  money  from  the  safe  where 
he  hail  placed  it.  Hut  what  reason  had  he 
for  doing  so?  the  sinallness  of  the  amount 
made  the  very  supposition  absurd.  If  lie 
was  involved  in  debt,  so  pitiful  a  sum  as 
ninety-three  ]>ounils  could  not  e.Mrii.'ate 
him  ;  besides,  was  he  not  a  |)artner  in  a  nour- 
ishing, well-established  house  V  and  could 
he  not  have  raised  ten  limes  the  amount 
in  a  hundred  dilFerent  ways?  Therelbre 
he  could  not  have  taken  it  simply  to  get 
possession  of  the  money,  which  had  been 
Abel's  first  impression  .  there  must  be  an- 
other and  a  deeper  motive  behind  it  all ; 
and  that  could  only  be  a  determination  to 
disgrace  him  so  that  there  should  be  a  rea- 
son to  dismiss  him  from  his  service. 

"  I  understand  it  all  now,"  he  cried 
starting  up,  alter  hours  of  deep  rellcction, 
and  walking  the  floor  r.apidly.  '•  He's  a 
greater  villain  thiin  I  thought  him :  he 
fears  that  I  suspect  him,  that  I  know  too 
miii'h,  and  that  I  will  betray  him  ;  he  looks 
uj)oii  me  as  a  spy,  and  has  taken  that  base 
means  to  banish  me.  After  all  I've  done 
for  him,  it  is  too  cruel.  It  is  more  than  I 
can  bear.  I  will  not  submit  to  it  calmly. 
I  will  not  allow  that  man  to  ruin  me.  I 
will  go  to  him,  and  expose  him  before  his 
father,  who  .shall  know  all  of  his  irregular 
proceedings  for  the  last  four  years.  And 
the  Jew,  how  can  he  explain  that  ?     Why 


was  he  closeted  with  him  ?  What  can  ho 
say  when  I  tell  his  I'atlier  of  all  these 
things  ?  " 

Full  of  this  intention,  and  bcsidi'  him- 
selt'  with  exi'iti'iiiciU  and  anger,  he  did  tho 
very  worst  thing  that  he  could  have  done  : 
he  rushed  into  Mr.  Thorpe's  private  ollice, 
where  he  was  sitting  ipiietly  with  bis  son, 
and  accused  the  yoiini;  man  bel'ore  bis  I'.i- 
tlicr  in  the  most  immoderate  and  insulting 
language.  ItolM-rt,  with  fearful  pallor  and 
llaming  eyes,  interrupted  liiiii  U'/ain  iiiiil 
again;  while  Mr.  Thorpe  treiiil)li'd  so  with 
indignation  that  he  could  scarce  speak; 
but,  when  at  last  he  rc'covered  himself,  ho 
(i|>ened  the  door  with  a  dignity  that  Abel 
could  not  mistake,  and,  sayin'.;  a  ti'W  low, 
impressive  words  to  him,  which  eoolcd  him 
directly,  he  bade  him  leave  his  prcseuco 
ti>rever. 

The  poor  fellow  tottered  out  throii;.;li  lliu 
warehouse  into  the  dark  passage,  so  faint 
and  dizzy  that  be  was  obli'^cd  to  lean  tor 
support  against  the  wall.  .\  great  sob  broke 
from  his  trembling  lips,  and  a  convulsion  of 
gi'ief shook  him  like  a  leaf.  Mr.  Thorpe, 
the  man  he  had  so  loved  and  reverciu'cd, 
the  man  tin*  whose  esteem  and  confideneo 
he  had  laliored  all  his  life,  had  threatened 
to  have  liiin  arrested  like  a  common  crim- 
inal I  had  ordered  him  to  leave  his  ollice,  or 
he  would  send  for  an  officer  to  take  him  to 
prison  on  a  charge  of  theft !  Was  there 
ever  a  more  cruel  wrong  done  an  iiino<-cnt 
man  ?  The  first  shock  had  cooled  him, 
now  the  numbness  had  pa.ssed  away  ;  and 
the  sting  that  remained  maddened  him. 
r-iill  of  a  terrible  resolve,  alone  in  that  dark 
I)assage,  but  a  few  steps  from  God's  blessed 
sunlight  and  tho  hurrying  feet  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  he  took  a  lisarful  oath, 
clutching  his  hand,  and  fdiaking  it  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  office  where  Mr.  Thorpe  sat 
with  his  son,  silent  and  gloomy,  neither 
daring  to  accuse  or  excuse  the  rash  young 
man  who  had  insulted  them  in  such  an 
unwarrantable  inanncr.  Then  he  hurried 
home,  rushing  blindly  through  the  crowds  ' 
of  ])eople  who  stared  at  him  woiideringly. 
Fires  and  tempests   had  slumbered  in  hia 


46 


ROPKB  OF  SAND. 


jK)()r  KOiil  until  MOW ;  nml  lu'  liiul  lu-vcr 
Im'cii  iiwiirc  III' ilirir  cxisti'iii'i'.  It  w.it  tin' 
iiijiii'iirf,  tilt'  ti'iTiltlr  iiiiuilii'c,  that  iinmni'd 
tlii'iii  III  Ik  wliirlwiii'l.  'I'lioKi-  wliii  ilii«k 
tlioy  iiiuliTKiiiiiil  liiiiiiaii  iKitiii-i-  wi'll  tell  ut 
thitt  It  ciiiiHi'iimMni'iiN  nf  innni'uiu'u  iiiiikcM  um 
milMiiit  t((iifi'ui.;itioiic:iliiily.  'I'liiit  will  |>iis?< 
iiH  a  lliciiry  nl'  i<iiiii('  |i<'ri<iiiiH  who  li.ivi!  Iiuil 
but  littlu  t'X|n'rl»'nfo  in  llm  wopkiir^H  of  ilio 
liciirl  ;  fell',  if  lliiTc  U  oiii'  njiitrk  of  |iHK!'Ioii  in 
tlif  Kiiiil,  it  will  \h'.  al)la/u  at  ttiicli  an  injury, 
or  wt>  arc  not  liiiinan. 

Wlii'u  Alit'l  ri'achcil  IiIm  rfM)m,  lie  threw 
hiniHt'lt'  iijioii  his  Ih'iI,  and  hiy  lor  lioiirn  in  ii 
Btiipor  of  ilcopnir  anil  (li,<coiini;:rnii'iit. 
"  What  is  thf  <«*i',"  ho  thiti|i;ht.  "  to  strii;,",'lc  ] 
any  liMv^cr  'I  I've  trii-il,  il'cvcr  any  <Mvaiiiri' 
dill,  to  keep  my  lii'ad  ahovc  wati'r.  Since  I 
lost  lier  and  dear  old  daddy,  I've  had  as  little 
heart  as  n  man  ever  had ;  and  yt  t  I've  trieil 
mil  to  sink.  I've  devoted  invself  to  these 
two  men.  I've  lived  on  lli  'if  approval, 
their  kindnesf).  I  had  no  other  niui  in  my 
desolate  lilt!  than  to  serve  them  I'aitlifillh  . 
I've  lived  titr  them  and  my  hooks,  I've 
studied  hard,  when  I  haven't  lieeii  woikin'/, 
to  raise  iny.self  up  to  an  intellectual  level 
with  them  ;  to  make  myself  more  worthy  of 
their  esteem  and  friendsliip.  I've  never 
wronged  any  one  in  my  life,  and  I  never 
meant  to  ;  for  four  years  my  heart  has  hied 
filently,  and  I  haven't  distiirlied  others 
with  my  ^rief.  I've  tried  to  live  a  hlame- 
less,  uiiolilrusive  life,  satisfied  with  enough 
f(jr  my  daily  bread,  and  my  other  small 
needs ;  and  I've  jjiven  what  I  could  spare  to 
those  poorer  than  myself.  I  couldn't  do 
much  (or  others;  but  (Jod  knows  I've  done 
what  I  eoiild.  My  confidence  in  them  was 
the  link  that  bounil  ine  to  humanity.  After 
my  dreadful  disappointment,  their  friend- 
ship made  lile  endurable.  I've  been  un- 
happy enou'jih ;  I've  had  my  share  of 
trouble,  yet  this  seems  to  be  the  hisiviest  of 
all.  Pour  old  daddy  was  ri^ht :  I  was  born 
for  sorrow  and  sacrifice.  There's  always  been 
a  sad  si'^hiii'.;  in  my  ears  :  perhaps  it  is  the 
old  mom  of  the  ocean  that  my  mother  heard, 
or  the  iiilieritan<'e  she  gave  me  Ijelbre  I  saw 
the   li 'ht.     What  a  lot  mine's  been  I  — 


never  to  know  n  filher,  to  lie  born  of  an 
ditfast,  to  lie  reared  in  |ioverly  and  i'.<no- 
rani'e,  with  ii  »oiil  thirstiu'j  liir  kmnvled'^'o 
as  the  dry  earth  liir  rain  ;  to  love  but  ono 
wmiian,  to  be  deceived  and  doerti'd  ;  and 
now  to  be  crushed  witii  this  cruel  wnm^'I 
Wlial  is  there  to  be  ihinkliil  liir  in  such  a 
di'siiny  ?  Fate  is  a'.;aiiiit  me.  It  isnoiise: 
I  shall  sti'U'iK'e  no  more  I '"  Then,  )()r;.'etting 
p  lor  old  Tup's  ilyiu'^  wiirniii'„',  he  beran  tu 
twist  his  ropi's  of  sand  :  he  bejaii  lo  accuse 
(to<l  of  injustice,  and  all  mankind  of  mis- 
chievous irileiiiions  toward  him;  he  exa;;- 
licrated  the  evil  by  eiicoura','iii'i  it,  and 
ihinkin'^'  of  it.  until  he  worked  hiiiisrll' up  to 
a  frenzy  of  passion  and  revcii'^c.  He  wan 
liurnin;;  with  li'ver,  .i  scurchini  thirst  tor- 
lured  him  ;  111'  drank  water  by  the  i|ii:ni,  but 
that  did  not  appease  it.  Then  he  did 
another  foolish  tliiii'.;:  ho  sent  Mrs.  Ilatlie 
for  a  bottle  of  brandy,  and  drank  a  ;.'lass  liir 
the  lirst  timi'  in  his  lilii. 

The  i^iiod  woman  was  an.sioiis  and 
alarmed  when  she  looked  at  his  ha'jr'.'ard 
face  and  blood-shot  eyes.  "  You're  ill,  you 
are,  Mr.  Winter;  an'  you  must  have  a  doc- 
tor. You're  leverish  an'  thirety,  \vlii(di  is 
the  way  they're  took  with  siiiall-po.\  an' 
yallcr  fever;  lioth's  )iO\n'  about  I.iinilnn, 
and  you've  eome  across 'cm  some  v  he  re," 
^he  said  with  melancholy  decision,  referrin;; 
to  the  diseases  in  a  way  that  corresponded 
with  the  fijfiirative  lani;uafj;o  of  the  Ilible, 
"  of  phv'iues  thit  stalk  by  noonday  !  '' 

"  You're  mistaken,  Mrs.  Battle  ;  I'm  not 
ill,  and  I  don't  want  a  doctor,"  ri'iiirncd 
Abel  in  such  a  loml,  cross  tone,  and  so 
unlike  his  usual  polite,  fiuiet  way,  that  his 
landlady  I'll  the  room  in  terror,  ileclurin^ 
to  her  husband  that  their  lod;jer  had  fiot 
the  ''delirium  treml)lers  instead  ol'ihc  small- 
pox, which  was  caused,  no  doubt,  by  them 
books." 

All  the  remainder  of  the  day,  Abel 
drank  brandy,  and  raved  and  tossed, 
swcariii;^  liitter  vengeance  against  Robert 
Thorpe,  so  that  by  night  he  was  in  a  fit 
condition  to  commit  almost  any  iiiadness. 
When  Bow  Bells,  that  had  made  such 
music  in  poor  Old  Top's  dying  ears,  rang 


'L 


ji\ 


LKKT  TO  HIMBRLP. 


47 


!)(>  horn  of  nn 
iTiy  iiiiil  iuiio 
t  for  kiiiiwlfil'.'o 
I)  liivt'  lint  iiiut 
(I'M'rti'il ;  iiii(l 
H  criii'l  wrun;.' ! 

ll  till'  111    Nllrll    a 

It  is  rill  iisi' ; 
riii'ii,fi>r;.'i'ttins 
ii'„',  lif  Ill-rail  to 
lii'iilii  lo  in  ril>ii' 
i;iiikinil  iif  mi.*- 
Iiiiii ;  lie  I'xa;;- 
ir:i','iii'i  it,  lUid 
n<l  liimNrlt'iip  to 

ell','!'.        Ill'    WHS 

liiiij  tliii-ftt  tor- 
ly  tlx'  i|ii:n'l,  lillt 
'  Tlicii  Ik.  .lid 
I'nt  iMi's.  Iliiitlo 
Iniiik  ii  ;.'ia(<.'<  lor 

anxious  anil 
lit  liis  li,i;j:'.'ar(l 
"  You're  ill,  you 
iiist  hiivf  a  (loc- 
liirs-ty,  which  is 

Miiiall-po.\  an' 
uhoiit  Loiiilon, 
in  some  vliuru," 
I'ii'ioii,  rcH'i-rini^ 
it  corrc-ponili'cl 
ro  of  till'  llible, 
)oiiilay  !  '' 
BattU' :  I'm  not 
R'tor,"  ri'i  iirnt'd 
IS  tone,  and  so 
L't  way,  thiit  his 
error,  ileclai-in;^ 
lod'.rer  had  not 
:(!ad  ol'ihe  Miiall- 
donht,  liy  them 

the  d.iy,  Abel 
d  and  tossed, 
against  Robert 
he  was  in  a  fit 
it  any  iiiadness. 
lad  made  sueh 
lying  ears,  rang 


f\   ^ 


i 


•  <: 


J^A 


nine,  he  was  prepannn  to  ;;o  nut.  lie  ar- 
ran'.'e<l  Ids  disordered  dress  with  treiiibliii.; 
hands,  drank  another  ^lass  of  brandy,  and 
then,  taking;  a  small  revolver  from  his 
drawer,  whieh  he  had  used  to  praiitise  in 
a  sh(K)tin(;-'.;allery,  he  loadeil  it  carefully, 
with  a  sti'ady  hand,  ami  put  It  resolutely 
Into  his  breast-|)oeket.  As  he  took  his  hat 
ihiin  the  tahltt,  hu  (!aii;;ht  n  ^"■np<**^  of  hiiii- 
lelf  ill  a  ;,das.s,  and  looked  with  a  va^iie 
wonder  at  the  ha;,"^ard  face  and  wild  eyes, 
whieh  seemed  bill  a  spirtral  relleution  ol 
his  own.  Then  he  stole  out  of  the  house 
like  aei'iminal,  sayiir.',  "  He  shall  ri'j;ht  me, 
or  I'll- take  his  lite;"  and  he  repeated  it 
over  and  over  in  his  heart,  as  ho  went 
throUL,di  the  street,  until  ho  reaehed  Lon- 
don Urid^e,  where  he  eould  seu  through 
the  (b:;  the  dim  li.dit  in  iIk!  window  of  the 
oflii'O  on  Lower  Tlianies  Street.  It  was 
as  he  had  expected  :  llobert  Tliorpo  was 
wriiing  there,  doiii.;  the  work  that  he  had 
always  dono  ;  and  later  ho  would  leave  by 
the  rear  exit,  throu.fh  the  warehoiiso  and 
covered  way,  as  was  the  custom  with  those 
who  remained  late. 

The  iii'^dit  was  very  dark ;  and  a  sou^li- 
inn  wind  drove  the  dense  foi^  into  the 
gloomy  passa'^e  where  Abel  waited  with 
the  instriiinent  of  revenge  clasped  firmly 
in  his  hand,  re[)eatiii:^  over  and  over  to 
himself,  '•  lie  shall  right  me,  or  I'll  shoot 
him  liko  a  do^."  It  seemed  to  hiin  that 
ho  had  waited  there  for  hours,  pressed 
against  the  door,  listening  for  the  steps 
that  did  not  come,  his  soul  a  whirlwind  of 
fierce  passion,  his  heart  full  of  burning 
Late  and  revenge,  when  suddenly  he  be- 
came conscious  tliat  some  one  was  there 
besides  himself;  that  another  human  bein^ 
was  watching  in  the  darkness  with  him  ; 
for  a  soft,  rustling  .sound  told  him  that  a 
woman's  drapery  was  brushing  against 
the  damp  wall.  Turning  his  head,  the  faint 
light  from  Lower  Thames  Street  struck 
across  his  face,  and  revealed  it  in  all  its 
ghastly  pallor  to  the  person,  who  sighed 
heavily,  and  withdrew  again  into  the 
shadow. 

"  Who  is  here  ?  "  ho  said  in  a  voice  of 


ill-eontrolied  anger,  fur  he  feared  that  this 
intruder  would  baillo  liiiii  in  his  scheiuu 
liir  extorting  reparalimi  Iroiii  Robert 
Tlior|K'',  but  ilu'i'e  was  no  n-ply,  only  a 
low,  broken  sob  which  toudied  liis  heart 
directly.  "  My  (iod  I  It's  a  woman,  and 
slut's  ill  trouble.  What  can  I  doy  llow 
can  I  get  her  away  before  he  conies','  " 

Holding  out  one  hand  in  the  ilark,  while 
with  the  oilier  he  clasped  the  wea[ioil  of 
death  <'liise  to  his  heart,  he  said  liioro 
kindly,  and  with  a  sofiMtied  voice,"  What's 
the  matter','  are  you  liiin,'ry?  Do  you 
want  money  to  get  a  night's  lodging  V  ll' 
you  do,  Here  it  is  :  taki^  it,  fur  (iod's  sake  ! 
and  goto  a  more  comfortable  place  tlian 
this."  lint  still  tliere  was  no  answer,  only 
llie  low,  brok(!n  sob.  Then  lie  lell  his 
post,  and  went  softly  toward  lint  tl  irk 
mass  huddled  against  the  wall.  She  was 
draped  in  black  from  head  to  foot,  and  not 
one  fi'ature  of  her  face  was  visilile  in  the 
obscurity.  As  ho  approiudied  her,  trem- 
bling with  excitement  and  a  nameless  fear, 
she  advanced  toward  him,  uid  held  out  a 
dark  bundle  with  a  weary,  di'oopiic^  motion, 
as  thoii'j;!!  she  could  no  longer  retain  it  in 
her  grasp. 

Instinctively,  scarce  knowing  what  ho 
did,  with  the  pistol  still  clenched  in  his 
hand,  Abel  reached  out  his  arms,  and 
received  into  them  what  he  knew  directly 
to  be  a  child,  wrapped  in  a  tliick  garment. 
Before  ho  was  well  aware  of  what  he  had 
done,  before  he  h.ad  tiini!  to  refuse  the 
little  creature  so  strangely  thrust  into  his 
keeping,  the  woman  glideil  by  him  out  of 
the  passage  into  the  street,  and  he  saw 
her  no  more  lor  he  made  no  cU'ort  to 
follow  lier,  but  stood  stupidly  holding  the 
bundle  at  arms'  length,  A  moment  after, 
a  slight  niovetiient  and  a  iiitifiil  cry  re- 
called him  to  himself;  and,  galhering  the 
child  close  to  his  breast  with  the  first 
instinct  of  the  human  heart,  he  tried  to 
soothe  it,  and  silence  its  plaintive  wail. 
The  instant  that  the  little  living  thing 
nestled  to  his  bosom,  the  warmth  anil  life 
seemed  to  penetrate  to  his  very  soul,  driv- 
ing out  the  demon  of  darkness  that  reigned 


m 


m> 


48 


BOPES  OF  SAND. 


I    i 


there.  "  My  God  !  "  he  cried,  like  one 
awakened  suddenly  from  a  horrible  dream, 
"  Where  am  I  ?  Why  am  I  here  Y  "  Then, 
as  the  thought  of  the  erime  ho  had  medi- 
tated iiiirst  upon  iiim  in  all  its  horror,  he 
j;roaned  aloud ;  and,  (Iin;jing  the  pistol  as 
I'ar  from  him  as  he  eould,  he  elasped  the 
child  closer,  and  rushed  trom  the  ])laee, 
just  as  llobert  Thorpe's  advancing  steps 
fell  upon  his  ear. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


A   MTTLE   ANGKL. 


WiiKN  Abel  fled  from  the  advaneinct 
steps  of  llobert  Thorpe,  his  one  desire  was 
to  escape  from  temptation.  In  an  instant 
his  feelin^is  had  entirely  changed  ;  and  he 
now  looked  upon  the  crime  he  had  been 
about  to  connnit  with  the  j;reatest  horror. 
lie  did  not  stop  until  he  was  snlficiently 
far  from  his  enemy  to  insure  his  safety  ;  then 
he  turned  ilito  a  dark  court  ;r,led  with 
bales  of  j^oods,  where  unobse.-v-.il  he  eould 
pause  a  moment  to  recover  himself.  Sink- 
ing down  on  one  of  the  boxes,  an<l  still 
holding  the  child  to  his  heart  a?  a  shield 
against  the  tempter,  he  tried  to  think  of 
what  had  taken  place  during  the  last  few 
days;  but  he  could  remember  nothing 
clearly  since  the  hour  that  Robert  Thorpe 
had  accused  him  of  a  crime  he  had  never 
committed.  Ail  the  intervening  time  was 
like  the  confusion  of  a  troubled  drea:"i 
that  left,  no  distinct  impression,  only  fear. 

"  Father  in  heaven  ! "  he  cried  with 
anguisii,  "I  was  about  to  commit  a 
dreadful  crime  :  I  was  about  to  stain  my 
soul  with  another's  blood.  Ilowcan  I  ever 
expect  mercy  from  thee  ?  How  can  I  ever 
raise  my  eyes  to  thy  face  ?  IIow  can  I 
walk  ujirightly  and  fearlessly  before  my 
fellow-men  with  the  memory  of  this  awful 
intention  haunting  me  ?  I  wixs  insane. 
I  was  deserted  by  my  good  angel.     I  was 


left  to  myself.  O  daddy  t  dear  daddy  !  did 
you  know  what  your  hoy  was  about  doing  ? 
Did  you  entreat  Christ  to  interpose  and 
save  him?  Ilowcan  1  ever  meet  you  in 
the  other  world  with  my  sin  and  ingratitude 
ever  betbre  me  ?  I  forgot  all  my  promises 
to  you,  —  promises  that  comforted  you  in 
your  last  hour.  I  forgot  my  resolution  tO 
do  light,  to  be  patient  in  trouble!,  to  be 
faithful  to  your  advice.  I  forgot  all;  and 
how  can  I  hope  for  mercy  and  l(:)rgiveness 
from  God  V  " 

There  alone,  in  the  darkness  and  dreari- 
ness of  night,  utterly  broken  in  spirit,  and 
crushed,  with  remorse  and  peniti'nce,  ho 
prayed  as  he  never  liad  prayed  before,  witli 
the  child  clasped  to  his  heart,  a  saving 
angel  that  had  come  between  him  and  sin. 
After  that  he  was  calmer :  a  great  agony 
seemed  to  have  been  lifted  from  him  ;  and 
he  walked  out  thankfully  into  the  street 
with  the  feeling  of  one  who  had  been  saved 
from  sudden  destruction.  He  stojjped  for 
a  moment  under  the  nearest  lamp;  and, 
drawing  back  the  shawl  from  the  face  of 
the  infant,  he  looked  at  it  for  the  first  time. 
It  was  fast  asleep  :  two  little  pink  lists  were 
doubled  close  under  its  dimpleil  chin,  long 
curled  lashes  lay  on  its  cheeks,  and  little 
rings  of  golden  hair  clustered  round  its 
white  forehead.  Its  frock  was  fine  and 
white  :  it  was  warm,  clean,  and  sweet,  and 
did  not  look  like  the  neglected  child  of  an 
outcast.  Tliere  was  a  mystery  about  it. 
AVho  had  thrust  it  into  his  arms?  AVas  it 
some  poor  creature  who  wishe<l  to  abandon 
the  fruit  of  her  shame,  and  had  not  the 
courage  to  leave  it  in  the  street,  or  at  a  door 
'.7 here  charity  could  not  refuse  it?  Or  was 
it  sent  to  him  by  God  to  save  him  from 
himself?  Was  it  a  little  angel  clothed  in 
human  flesh  that  had  been  put  into  hia 
arms  to  drive  the  demons  of  hate  and 
revenge  from  his  heart?  While  these 
thoughts  were  passing  in  his  mind,  he  had 
formed  no  plan  as  to  what  he  should  do 
with  it.  Its  very  helplessness  appealed  to 
him  for  protection.  The  warmth  of  its 
little  body  penetrated  his  heart.  It  had 
saved  him  from  a  fearful  sin :  he  could  not 


"J 


> 


A  LITTLE  ANQEL. 


49 


(lour  daddy !  diil 
iViis  about  doing  ? 
to  intorpose  and 
ver  nuut  you  in 
n  and  iii<rratitudo 
,  all  my  promises 
'ouitbrted  you  in 
my  I'L'solutiou  to 
in  trouble,  to  be 
I  forgpf  all ;  and 
y  and  ibrgivencss 

mess  and  drcari- 
en  in  spirit,  and 
id  ponitimt'e,  ho 
ayi'd  before,  witli 

heart,  a  saving 
iicn  him  and  sin. 
:  a  great  agony 
[1  from  liim  ;  and 
•  into  the  street 
ohad  boon  saved 

He  stojjped  for 
rest  lamp ;  and, 
rora  the  face  of 
for  the  first  time. 
le  pink  lists  were 
npled  chin,  long 
heeks,  and  little 
Uered  round  its 
k  was  fine  and 
,  and  sweet,  and 
L'ted  child  of  an 
ystery  about  it. 

arms?  AVas  it 
she<l  to  abandon 
nd  had  not  the 
;reet,  or  at  a  door 
fuse  it?  Or  was 
D  save  him  from 
ivngel  clothed  in 
:cn  put  into  hia 
IS  of  hate  and 
?  While  these 
is  mind,  he  had 
it  he  should  do 
less  appealed  to 

warmth  of  its 

heart.  It  had 
[i:  he  could  not 


abnrtdon  it,  even  thou;,'h  a  policeman  was  I  falseluMxl.     "  I  felt  feverish  and  poorly  ;  so 


at  that  m  )ment  walking  towards  him,  and 
he  had  only  to  tell  him  the  story,  which 
was  a  ciiinMion  one,  and  put,  the  child  into 
his  arms  to  be  relieved  of  it  and  all  further 
responsibility  ;  but  be  could  not  do  that, — 
no,  lie  could  not.  It  nestled  again  in  his 
arms;  iind  he  clasped  it  closer  to  his  heart, 
as  he  turned  into  Little  Eastcheap,  and 
liurrieil  toward  his  own  home. 

When  Mrs.  Battle  discovered  that  Abel 
had  Stolen  (piietly  out  of  the  house,  from, 
wha*  she  supjiosed  to  be  a  sick  bed,  she 
declared  to  hi'r  man,  with  the  most  ominous 
solemnity,  that  his  boily  would  be  found  in 
the  Tliauies  next  morning,  as  he  was  '■  as 
crazy  as  a  Marcli  hare.     lie  had  slipped 
away  to  drown  liisself,  an'  it  was  a'  awful 
misiortune,  besides  bein'  a  loss,  as  they'd 
never  in  the  world  let  their  rooms  when  it 
was  known  that  a  lodger  had  drowned  his- 
self  out  of  'em  ; "  but  when  she  saw  him 
enter  her  little  back  jjarlor,  after  she  had 
given  liiiu   up  entirely,  damp,  pale,  disor- 
dered,   but    alive,   with    a    large    bundle 
wrapped  in  a  blue   and   green    plaid,  her 
anxiety  was  changed  into  joy  ;  and,  scarce 
knowing  what    she  did,   she  accumulated 
question  upon  question.     '■  Why,  Mr.  Win- 
ter,  how   could   you   do    so?     You  don't 
know   what  a'  awful   start  I  got  when   I 
found  you'd  gone  out.     You  seemed  so  sick 
and  strange-like  this  afternoon,  that  I  was 
afrai<l    you   was    light-headed,   and    had 
kind  o'  wandered  off,  an'  might  come  to 
harm.     I've   been   into  a  dreadful    state, 
a-fidgittin'  to  the  door  every  minit  to  see  if 
you'd  come.     Why,  what  possessed  you  to 
go    out   when   you  was   so   knocked   up? 
Wliere  have  you  been  ?  an'  what  'ave  you 
got  in  that  shawl  ?  " 

"  Don't  get  excited,  Mrs.  Battle ;  pray, 
don't.  There's  nothing  at  all  the  matter. 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  if  you'll  only  give 
me  time,"  said  Abel,  sinking  into  a  chair, 
and  smiling  a  sickly  sort  of  a  smile,  to  re- 
assure the  good  woman,  who  was  (puvering 
with  curiosity  and  surprise.  '•  I  went  out 
to  get  the  air,"  he  continued,  feeling  obliged 
under  the    circumstances  to  resort  to  a 


I  thought  I'd  take  a  turn  "  — 

Just  then  the  child  nujved  and  cried  a 
little;  and  .Mrs.  B.ittio  threw  u|)  her  hands 
and  exclaimed,  "  Good  Lord,  Mr.  Win- 
ter !  you've  got  somethin'  livin'  in  that  i)un- 
dle.     Is  it  a  baby,  or  a  <log?  " 

"  It's  a  baby,  Mrs.  Battle  ;  and,  if  you'll 
be  calm  a  moment,  I'll  tell  you  the  strangest 
thing  of  all.  I'd  stopped  a  moment  to  rest, 
and  was  leaning  against  a  wall ;  or,  rather 
I  saw  a  woman  leaning  against  a  wall, — 
excuse  mo  if  I'm  a  little  confused,  my 
head's  not  just  right  yet,  —  I  saw  a  woman 
leaning  against  a  wail,  in  a  very  dejected 
and  feeble  sort  of  a  way  ;  and  so  1  went 
toward  her  to  see  if  I  could  l)e  ,i"  any 
assistance,  when  she  held  out  this  tjiindle ; 
an'  I,  not  knowing  what  it  was,  took  it  froui 
her;  th(!n,  before  I  fairly  knew  what  I  had 
done,  she  disappeared  in  the  darkiie.<s,  and 
I  couldn't  see  her  anywhere." 

"  O  Mr.  Winter !  is  it  j)0ssible  that  you 
are  so  innocent  as  that?  Why,  it'.s  an  old 
trick  in  London,  for  them  miserable  cretur's 
to  get  clear  o'  their  babies  that  way.  I 
must  say  as  how  you  was  took  in  nicely. 
What  kind  of  a,  thing  is  it?  Ii  you've  no 
objections,  I'll  take  a  peep;  "  and  Mrs.  Battle 
began  to  untold  the  shawl  with  averted 
face,  saying,  "  I'm  a'lnost  afraid  to  touch  it : 
I  da'  say  it's  pison  with  dirt." 

"  No,"  returned  Abel,  giving  it  into  her 
hands  with  a  sigh  of  relieK  "  I've  looked  at 
it:  it's  like  all  babies,  but  it  seems  neat 
enough." 

"  I  do  declare  if  it  ain't  as  clean  as  wax, 
and  as  lovely  too,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Battle, 
dropping  off  its  cocoon-liko  wrappings,  and 
holding  it  up  to  the  light,  —  a  tiny,  little, 
white  creature,  as  pure  and  sweet  as  a 
rosebud.  "Mercy  alive  I  Mr.  Winter, 
don't  it  puzzle  you  to  know  how  them 
mothers  can  'bandon  a  child  like  this  —  an' 
a  cambric  frock  with  lace,  an'  'broidery 
on  its  petticoat  1  It  ain't  no  common 
child." 

Tho  little  creature  winked  and  blinked 
under  the  strong  light,  rubbed  its  tiny 
nose  with  its  pink  fists,  and  whined,  sjrew- 


t    « 
I 


iT 


I 


50 


HOPES  OF  SAND. 


ing  up  its  little  face  to  an  unintelligible  | 

knot.  1    1 1   • 

"Is'poseil's  hungry.  If  you'll  hold  it 
a  niiuit,  I'll  ;:et  it  some  milk,"  suid  Mrs. 
Battle,    reaching    it  out  like    a    roll    o. 

hnen. 

Abel  took  it,  awkwardly  enough  to  be 
sure;  but  a  warm  thrill,  common  to  all 
humanity,  went  through  his  heart  when  it 
nestled  its  little  head  against  hnn.  It 
had  beautiful  blue  eyes  ;  and,  as  he  looked 
into  their  depths,  his  own  grew  misty  and 
tender. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the 
mite,  Mr.  Winter  ?"  questioned  Mrs.  Bat- 
tle, as  she  fed  it  handily,  patting  it  i  very 
now  and  then  on  its  back  when  it  choked 

a  little  and  caught  its  breath. 

"  1   don't  know,  Mrs.  Battle,"  returned 

Abel    thoughtlully :   "I've  'not    decided. 

What  do  you  think  we'd  better  do  with 

itV" 

"  Why,  I  should  say  to  call  a  p'liceman, 
an'  let  'im  take  it  to  Guildford  Street,  to  the 
fondlin'  'oapital." 

•'  Oh,  I  can't  do  that  1 "  cried  Abel,  remem- 
bering at  what  a  moment  it  had  been  put 
into  his  arms,  and  what  it  had  saved  him 
Irom.  '•  It  would  be  cruel  to  send  it  to 
such  a  place." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  no  other  way.  A 
child  like  this  is  a  heavy  charge,  an'  no 
small  expense." 

"  Yes,  that's  true,  Mrs.  Battle ;  but  you 
can   take  care  of  it  to-night,  can't  youV 
and  by  to-morrow  I'll  decide  what  I  am  to 
do  with  it.  Now  I'll  go  to  bed ;  lor  I'm  tire.l 
and  not  feeling  well,  and  I  know  you'll  take 
the  best  of  care  of  it."    Before  he  went  out, 
he  stooped  over  the  child,  and  looked  into 
its  beautiful  eyes,  smoothiug  its  sofl  check 
gently.     A  little  hand  struggled  from  the 
folds  of  the  towel   that  Mrs.  Battle  had 
placed  under  its  chin  when  she  fed  it,  and 
twining  itself  round  one  of  Abel's  fmgers, 
it  held  fast   with    a    clinging,   detaining 
grasp,  lie  could  not  resist.that :  it  appealed 
to  him  more  forcibly  than  language.  Snatch- 
i„T  it  up  in  his  arms,  he  kissed  it  over  and 
over,  and  then  laid  it  down,  blushing  like 


a  girl.  "  Good-night,  Mrs.  Battle,  pood- 
night,"  he  said  almost  cheerfully.  "  Take 
gwd  care  of  it,  and  we'll  decide  iu  the 
morning  what  to  do." 

When  Abel  entered  his  room,  he  sat  down 
quietly  among   his  books  and  flowers.     It 
was  not  yet  midnight ;  still  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  been  away  for  weeks,  so  stni  .ge 
had  been  the  experience  through  which  ho 
had  passed.    In  thinking  of  what  Had  hap- 
pened during  the  last  few  days,  he  seemed 
not  to  have  been  himself,  but  another  i.erson. 
Now  that  he  had  returned  to  his   normal 
state,  he  could  look  upon«very  thiug  calmly 
and   reasonably;   and  his   thoughts   went 
back  to  his  past  life,  to  his  babyhood,  to  • 
poor  Old  Top,  who  had  taken  him,  a  waif 
thrown  upon  his  charity,  as  this  little  one 
had  been  thrust  ui)on  him,  and  reared  him, 
iind  loved  him  faithfully  all  his  life.     I'hen 
how  could  he  refuse  to  do  the  same  fbr  this 
little   abandoned  creature  V     Besides,  had 
it  not  been  sent  to  him  in  a  moment  of  ter- 
rible temptation,  to  save  him  from  a  crime 
that  would  have  ruined  him  forever.     Was 
it  not  a  gift  of  ('    ■■  a  little  angel  laid  into 
his  arms  to  con  ibi    '  »,  ^o  soften  his  heart, 
and  to  cheer   .  '     "HI  not  cast  it 

away,"  he  resolvi  ...  keep  it  and  care 

fbr  it.    It's  my  duty,  and  I'll  do  it."     Then 
he  began  to  think  again  of  his  troubles,  — of 
Robert  Thorpe,   and   the   wrong   ho   had 
done  him,  — and  was  surprised  to  find  how 
much  his  feelings  had  changed  and  softened 
towards  him.    Instead  of  wishing  for  re- 
venge, he    almost  pitied  him,   and   even 
thought  that  in  time  he  might  forgive  him. 
Wh  °n  Bow  Bells  struck  twelve,  he  retired 
for  the  night ;  and,  being  completely  ex- 
hausted by   all  he  luid    experienced,   he 
soon  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  of  .lear  Old 
Top,  —  thought  that  he  came  to  him  with 
a  face  full  of  tender  peace,  and,  laying  his 
hand  on  his  head,  ho  said  sweetly,  "  Abel, 
give  thanks  to  God,  and  never  forget  his 

mercy ! " 

The  next  morning  he  was  up  early,  and 
waiting  anxiously  fbr  Mrs.  Battle,  who  was 
later  than  usual  with  his  breakfast.  When 
at  last  she  made  her  appearance,  she  ex- 


1 


mmt^M*-»iidti/mtiBm^ 


i^uiiliiiiiliiHiiiii^ 


B.  Battle,  pood- 
jrl'ully.     '•  Take 

I  decide  in  tUc 

lom,  be  sat  down 
mil  flowers.     It 
t  seemed  to  liim 
veeks,  sostni-.!j;e 
irou^h  which  he 
f  what  wad  hiip- 
ilays,  he  seemed 
t  another  person, 
il  to  his   normal 
rery  thinj;  calmly 
i   thou;;his   went 
his  babyhood,  to  • 
iken  hiui,  a  waif 
as  this  little  one 
,  and  reared  him, 

II  his  lite.     Then 
the  same  for  this 

i'l  Besides,  had 
a  moment  of  ter- 
liim  from  a  crime 
im  forever.  Was 
Ic  an;4el  laid  into 

0  soften  his  heart, 
"  I'll  not  cast  it 

i  keej)  it  and  caro 
I'll  do  it."  Then 
f  his  troubles,  —  of 
le  wrong  ho  had 
rprised  to  find  how 
inged  and  softened 
of  wishing  for  re- 
id  hiui,  and  even 
mii^ht  Ibrgive  him. 
twelve,  he  retired 
ing  completely  ex- 

1  experienced,    he 
earned  of  dear  Old 

came  to  him  with 
aee,  and,  laying  his 
x\d  sweetly,  "  Abel, 
id  never  forget  his 

le  was  up  early,  and 
Irs.  Battle,  who  was 
is  breakfast.  When 
ippearanco,  she  ex- 


s 


A  LITTLE  ANGEL. 


01 


ciised  herself  a  little  crossly,  on  the  ground 
that  the  baby  had  hindered  her. 

'•How  is  it,  and  how  did  it  sleep?" 
inquired  Abel  eai^erly. 

"  Oh,  it's  well  enough  !  but  it's  a  deal  o' 
trouble.  It  kept  me  an'  my  man  awake  all 
ni',dit." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  that,  Mrs.  Battle ;  because 
I've  (leciiled  to  keep  it,  if  we  can  make  some 
arrangement." 

"  As  to  that,  Mr.  Winter,  I've  nothin'  to 
say.  You've  a  right  to  keep  it  if  you  want 
to;  but  you  don't  expect  me  to  take  care 
of  it,  do  you  V  " 

"  No,  certainly  not,  Mr?.  Battle ;  unless 
I  pay  you  to  attend  to  it.  1  thought,  as  you 
had  no  children  of  your  own,  you  might 
like  to  keep  the  little  thing,  for  a  considera- 
tion; ami  it  would  be  a  ileal  of  company 
for  me  when  I'm  in  the  house." 

'•  Well,  I  don't  know  as  I'd  mind.  It's  a 
nice  little  thing  ;  an'  my  man's  took  quite  a 
notion  to  it,"  retm-ned  Mrs.  Battle,  liright- 
euinu'  up  at  the  thought  of  the  "  considera- 
tion." "  I'll  do  the  l)est  I  can  for  it ;  but  it'll 
need  clothes  and  things." 

"Yes:  I've  thought  of  that.  Here's 
five  pounds ;  lay  it  out  for  it  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage,"' said  Abel,  oi)ening  his  desk,  and 
lianding  her  a  note. 

"  Now,  I  declare,  this  is  real  handsome  of 
you,  Mr.  Winter  !  I'll  fit  her  up  nice  for 
that :  she'll  be  as  neat  as  a  pin." 

"Oh!  it's  a  girl,  is  it?  I  never  thought 
whether  it  was  a  girl  or  a  boy." 

"And  another  thing,  Mr.  Winter:  we 
must  have  a  name  for  lier." 

"Yes:  1  suppose  we  must;  but  I  can't 
think  of  one.  Never  mind  it  now  :  we'll 
wait  a  while,  and  peih;ips  one  will  come  to 
us.  Bring  the  little  thing  up,  Mrs.  Battle  : 
I'd  like  to  see  it  before  I  go  out." 

Mrs.  L.ittle  brought  the  baby.  It  was  as 
clean  and  fresh  as  a  rose,  its  mouth  dim- 
pled with  smiles,  and  its  blue  eyes  wide  and 
sparkling. 

Abel  held  it  for  more  than  an  hour ;  awk- 
wanlly  at  first,  but  s<x)n  be  became  acciis- 
touieil  to  the  delicate  liitie  bundle,  ami 
handled   it   more  gracefully.      She  cooeil 


and  laughed,  and  held  out  her  chubby 
hamls  H)r  his  flowers;  and  he  allowed  her 
to  clutch  her  little  fingers  full  of  blossoms; 
but,  when  she  crammed  them  into  her  rosy, 
wet  mouth,  he  became  alarmed,  and  called 
lor  Mrs.  iJattle  to  take  them  out.  Every 
movement  seemed  perfect,  every  smile  and 
glance  wonderful.  She  had  brought  a  new 
interest  and  ho|)e  into  his  life,  to  take  the 
place  of  the  old  ;  and,  while  he  looked  at 
her,  he  found  himself  thinking.  '•  She  is  a 
little  angel,  sent  by  Goil  to  sooiIk!  my 
troubled  heart,  and  to  brighten  my  dreary 
life." 

It  wiis  some  months  before  Abel  could 
find  any  new  emi>loyment :  but  he  did  not 
suffer,  because  he  had  saved  (juite  a  little 
sum  liom  his  own  earnings,  and  lie  hail  in- 
vested the  hundred  pounds  that  Top  had  left 
him,  to  good  advantage;  therel()rc,  he  had  a 
small  income  bo  defray  his  expenses  and 
provide  for  the  child.     But,  as  month  :dlcr 
month  passed  away,  he  began   to  get  dis- 
couniged,  and  feared  that  he  should  never 
find  a  situation,  not  having  any  reference; 
as  he  could  not  mention  Mr.  Thorpe,  for 
reasons  that  can  be  easily  understood.     At 
last,  one  day,  when  he  was  almost  in  de- 
spair, he  chanced  to  enter  a  counting-house 
on  Fleet  Street,  where  they  were  in  need 
of  a  co])yist.      Judging  favorably  of  liim 
from  his  liieeand  appearance,  they  engnged 
him  for  a  fair    salary,   without   re(iuiring 
reference.     It  was  a  long  time  helbre  he 
could  li;el  at  home  in  his  new  jtosition  :  he 
missed  the  faces  and  surroundings  among 
which  he  hail  passed   the  greater  part  of 
his  lilij ;  but  at  last  he  became  accustomed 
to  the  change,  and  settled  down  patiently 
to  his  new  work.     There  he  displayed  the 
same    fine    (juality    that     had    won     Jlr. 
Thorpe's  euulidence :  so  that  his  new  em- 
ployer began  to  look  upon  him  as  a  valua- 
ble actjuisition,  and  treated  him  with  so 
much  consideration,  that  he  had  nothing  to 
com|)lain  of.      IVrh;ips  his  condiaon  was 
even  bettered  ;  for,  alter  a  year,  he  received 
a  larger  salary,  and   had  less  work  to  do 
than  before. 

So  the  time  passed  off;  month  followed 


02 


ROPES  OF  SAND. 


month,  and  year  followed  year,  until  the 
baby,  who  had  never  ruceived  any  other 
name  than  Pet,  had  f;rown  into  a  lovely 
child  of  five  years.  She  was  alleetionate, 
docile,  and  intellijient ;  and  Abel  loved  her 
to  idolatry.  Mrs.  Battle  lia<l  been  an  ex- 
cellent nurse,  had  kept  her  clean  and  neat, 
and  had  not  spoiled  her  with  injudicious 
j)ettin;4;  so  that  Abel,  in  his  hours  at  home, 
had  not  found  it  dillicult  to  train  her  mind, 
in  the  right  direction.  Besides  his  busi- 
ness, he  had  no  thought,  desire,  or  aim, 
that  was  not  connected  with  the  child. 
Every  shilling  lie  saved  from  his  wages 
was  hoarded  for  her;  every  plan  was  in 
refL'reiice  to  her  i'uture ;  he  forgot  himself 
in  his  love  for  her,  or  he  united  his  life  so 
closely  with  hers,  that  ho  confounded  one 
with  tlie  otlier.  Sometimes  he  would  look 
at  her,  as  she  lay  asleep  in  his  arms ;  and 
thinking  of  her  beauty,  which  he  felt  was 
a  dun'.;eroiis  gift,  he  would  wish  she  were 
less  attractive  and  lovely,  trembling  as  he 
remembered  the  unhappy  fate  of  poor  Vio- 
let. Had  he  ceased  to  regret  Violet,  in 
this  new  love  ?  Oh,  no !  there  were  hours 
when  he  thought  of  her  with  anguish,  — 
liours  when  the  stone  would  suddenly  be 
removed  from  the  grave  of  his  love,  and 
she  would  stand  before  iiim-  in  all  the  fresh- 
ness and  beauty  of  those  early  days.  But 
in  nine  years  the  heart  changes ;  and  some 
tell  us,  that  even  the  systinn  undergoes  a 
complete  transformation  once  in  seven 
years,  —  that  every  drop  of  the  original 
ichor  passes  away,  and  a  new  takes  its 
place.  If  that  be  so,  then  we  cannot  won- 
der if  we  transfer  our  sentiments,  our  de- 
sires, our  hope,  to  some  new  object.  Violet 
was  gone  forever  out  of  his  life :  for  nine 
years  he  had  not  looked  into  her  face ;  for 
nine  years  he  had  not  heard  the  sound  of 
her  voice.  She  was  no  more  to  him  than 
a  |)hantom  of  the  past,  a  memory,  a  dream. 
111!  had  long  thought  upon  her  as  dead, 
long  ceased  to  look  for  her  in  the  streets. 
It  was  years  since  his  heart  had  leapt  to 
his  throat  at  a  glimpse  of  a  face  or  figure 
that  resembled  hers.  There  was  a  time 
when  ho  could  not  turn  a  corner  without 


thinking  tliat  ho  might  meet  her  fiiee  to 
face ;  but  at  last  he  began  to  feel  that  Lon- 
don was  large,  that  the  world  was  large, 
and  that  their  paths  might  run  forever  one 
on  each  side  of  life's  river ;  and  that  the 
river  woulil  broaden  and  deepen,  until  it 
reached  the  ocean  of  eternity,  and  tbey 
who  had  comraen(!ed  their  jimrney  side  by 
side  would  meet  no  more  on  earth. 


CHAPTER  X. 


A    WITHKRKD   VIOLET. 


It  was  Sunday  morning.  Mrs.  B.ittlo 
was  tying  a  pretty  blue  bonnet  over  Pet's 
golden  curls.  Abel  was  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  by  the  open  window,  with  a  copy  of 
the  "  Times  "  in  his  hand  ;  but  he  was  not 
reading,  he  was  watching  the  child,  while 
Mrs.  Battle  dressed  her  that  he  might  take 
her  for  a  walk.  Slie  was  such  a  lovely 
little  creature,  that;  in  spite  of  his  better 
judgment,  he  was  very  proud  of  her,  and 
bought  her  pretty,  dainty  things,  —  kid  shoes, 
embroi<lered  frocks,  and  little  silk  bonnets, 
that  she  might  be  as  neatly  dressed  as  other 
children  in  the  park.  There  lias  been  no 
notable  cliange  in  the  room  since  we  peeped 
into  it.  The  flowers  bloom  as  brightly,  the 
violets  are  as  fragrant,  the  breakiiist-table, 
witli  its  clean  cloth,  and  remnants  of  chops 
anil  muflins,  presents  the  same  appearance  ; 
only  that  now  there  is,  beside  Abel's  chair, 
a  child's  chair,  and,  beside  liis  plate,  a 
child's  bright  pewter  plate  and  mug :  and 
perhaps  there  are  not  quite  so  many  books 
strewn  round  as  formerly ;  but,  instead  of 
them,  arc  headless  dolls,  broken  toys,  col- 
ore<l  blocks,  and  illustrated  primers.  A 
child's  presence  is  visible  c.  :;rywhere  ;  and 
Abel  finds  no  fault.  He  likes  to  sec  her 
things  lying  about ;  for  Pet  is  a  part  of  liim- 
self,  and  what  she  likes  he  likes  also. 
While  be  was  fondly  watching  her,  stand- 
ing docile  uniler  tiie  hands  of  Mrs.  Battle, 
who  turned  her  round  like  a  top,  giving 


' 


A  WITHERED  VIOLET. 


63 


ot  licr  fiiee  to 
3  fuel  thiit  Loll- 
jrlil  Wits  lar<;e, 
•UM  (brevur  ono 
' ;  iinil  that  the 
U'cpen,  until  it 
■nity,  ami  tbey 
iouniey  side  hy 
earth. 


X. 


OLET. 


;.  JMi'8.  Biittle 
iinet  over  Pet's 
niiii;  bauk  in  his 
with  a  copy  of 
but  he  was  not 
the  child,  while 
t  he  inii;ht  take 
!  such  a  lovely 
to  of  his  better 
ud  of  her,  and 
Qgs,  —  kid  shoes, 
tie  silk  bonnets, 
dressed  as  other 
re  has  been  no 
since  we  peeped 
as  brightly,  the 
break!iist-table, 
nn.-vnts  of  chops 
ine  appearance ; 
de  Abel's  chair, 
le  his  plate,  a 
and  niii<T :  and 
so  many  books 
but,  instead  of 
roken  toys,  col- 
cd  primers.  A 
.  :;ry  where  ;  and 
likes  to  50C  her 
is  a  part  of  him- 
hc  likes  alsO' 
ling  her,  stand- 
of  Mrs.  Battle, 
e  a  top,  giving 


I 


her  a  twitch  here,  and  a  pull  there,  he 
fjlanced  from  time  to  time  at  the  journal  he 
held  in  his  hand;  suddenly  he  uttered  a 
cry  of  astonishment,  the  paper  fell  to  the 
floor  unnoticed,  and  ho  said,  as  though  he 
were  thinking  aloud,  "  How  strange,  aRer 
all  these  years,  to  read  of  their  ruin  t  " 

"What's  ruined,  Mr.  Winter?"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Battle,  who  had  caught  the  last 
word  of  his  remark.  "  I  hope  it  ain't  all  the 
fruit  a?  is  dropped  off  the  trees  along  with 
them  nasty  caterpillars." 

"  Oh,  no,  I^Irs.  Battle  1  It's  nothing  to  do 
with  fruit  and  caterpillars.  It's  the  failure  of 
a  house  I  once  worked  for,  —  the  house  of 
Thorpi!  &  Son.  They  were  considered  very 
reliable  ;  and  it  gives  mc  quite  a  shock, 
as  their  liabilities  are  unconuuonly  large." 

"  Well,  that's  a  pity,"  returned  Mrs.  Bat- 
tle, who  was  a  clever  business  woman,  and 
understood  the  terms  he  had  used.  "  It's  a 
pity  for  them,  if  they're  honest,  which  looks 
very  doubtful ;  an'  a  greater  for  them  that 
they  owes.  I  hope  you  didn't  have  any 
thing  with  them,  Mr.  Winter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  1     '  I  drew  out  what  little  I  had  at 

the  time  1  left  their  employ,  five  years  ago." 

"  What's  been  the  cause  of  it,  do  you 

s'pose  ?  "  continued  Mrs.  Battle,  who  always 

wanted  the  particulars  of  every  thing. 

"  I  don't  know,  unless  young  Mr.  Thorpe 
has  been  very  extravagant,  and  managed 
affairs  badly.  You  see,  Mrs.  Battle,  his 
father's  health  was  poor ;  and  I  fancy  every 
thing  was  left  to  him  at  the  last.  It's  given 
me  quite  a  shock  :  it's  very  sad,  really.  I'll 
go  out  and  take  a  turn  in  the  air,  as  soon  as 
you  have  Pet  ready." 

"  She'd  been  ready  a'  'our  ago,  if  she 
wasn't  the  troublesoraest  little  mite  in  the 
world  to  dress.  She's  so  small,  that  \'.r 
things  is  al'ays  a-droppin'off;  an'  I  do  want 
'er  to  look  tidy-like." 

«  She'll  do  nicely,  Mrs.  Battle;  she's  very 
well  as  she  is,"  said  Abel,  taking  his  hat, 
and  holding  out  his  hand  to  the  child,  who 
danced  down  the  stairs,  delighted  to  be  free 
from  Mrs.  Battle's  fussing  fingers. 

"  Where  would  you  like  to  go,  *  ot  V  "  he 
asked,  looking  into  her  sweet  face. 


"  Oh,  to  St.  James's  Park,  papa  I  I've  got 
some  biscuit  for  the  ducks,  an'  they  do  wad- 
dle so  cunnin',  an'  eat  out  n'  my  hand  as 
tame  as  kittens." 

He  never  denied  her  any  thing  reasona- 
ble, so  of  course  they  went  to  St.  James's ; 
and  Pet  enjoyed  a  perfect  morning,  feeding 
the  ducks,  and  following  them  from  ])lace 
to  place ;  while  Abel  sat  near,  on  a  bench, 
watching  her  graceful  little   figtire  flitting 
here  and  there,  her  golden  curls  blowing  in 
the  wind,  and  her  blue  eyes  sparkling  with 
health  and  happiness.     While  he  was  look- 
ing at  the  child,  and   mentally  comparing 
his  present  peace  and  prosperity  wiih  the 
mislbrtunes  that  had  Allien  on  his  old  enemy, 
he  saw  a  gentleman  apjiroach  her  and  speak 
to  her.     At  first  he  did  not  pay  much  atten- 
tion to  it,  as  it  was  not  an  uncommon  thing 
for   peoi)le   to   notice   Pet,   and   it  rather 
pleased   than   disturbed   him ;    but   as  he 
glanced  again   at  the  stranger,  who  stood 
with  his  back  toward  him,  he  was  struck 
with  something  familiar  in  his  appearance. 
Those   fine  shoulders,  that  curling  brown 
hair,  he  had  seer,  before.     At  last  he  turn«d 
in  his  direction  ;  and  Abel  saw,  for  tlie  first 
time  in  five  years,  the  face  of  Robert  Thorpe. 
For  a  moment,  something  of  the  old  anger 
stirred  in  his  heart ;  but,  when  he  noticed 
how  changed  he  was,  his  feelings  softened, 
and  he  pitied  him   deeply,  in  spite  of  all. 
His  face  was  thin  and  pale,  his  eyes  sunken 
and  dull,  his  handsome  mouth  drooping  and 
sad,  and  his  air  weary  and  dejected.     He 
looked  like  a  man  who  had  sufi'ered  deeply, 
who   had  striven  and   struggled,  but  who 
had  been  at  last  defeated  in  the  battle  of  life. 
If  Abel  had  seen  him  happy  and  prosperous, 
he  would  have  passed  him  with  pride  and 
indifference ;  but,  as   it   was,  ho  lelt  sin- 
cerely sorry  for  him,  and   almost  forgave 
him   the  wrong    he    had  endured  for  so 
long. 

He  seemed  to  be  deeply  interested  in  Pet, 
who  stood  with  her  sweet  face  raised  to  his, 
her  blue  eyes  full  of  innocent  light,  her 
long  golden  curls  falling  away  from  her 
flushed  cheeks, — 

"  A  sight  to  make  an  old  man  young." 


w 


M 

m 


11' 


S4 


B0PK8   OF  SAND. 


AIUt  a  f(!W  iiioiiu-ntH,  at  somo  remark  of 
the  cliild'H,  Uoljert  Thdi/i^  looked  toward 
Al)el,  and  caw  liiiii  Hittin;^  tliere,  (or  thu 
first  time,  lie  started  with  surprise;  a 
vivid  (liisli  erimsoiied  liis  t'aee  ;  and  tiirnin;» 
snildi'niy.  witiiout  anotlier  word  to  I'et,  he 
oll'ered  his  arm  to  a  i'eeiile  old  (rentleniah, 
will)  sat  on  a  bench,  halt'  liidden  by  a  elns- 
ter  of  laurel ;  then  thu  two  walked  hastily 
away,  wiili  a  backward  jinnee  in  Abel's  ili- 
reciiuM.  The  old,  siekly  man  was  ]\Ir. 
Thorpe.  He  scarce  reeo:,'ni/e(l  him  in 
the  shrunk  face,  tlio  stoopinj;  hotly,  and 
trembling  limbs.  Mislbrtune  had  left  ter- 
ril)ie  traces  upon  him,  as  well  as  upon  his 
son. 

As  soon  as  Robert  Thori)e  turned  aw.ay, 
Pet  came  rnnniiig  to  Alu'l,  all  doli^lit  and 
animation.  "  What  was  that  <;tmtleman 
savin;.;  to  you,  dear  ?  "  he  asked,  drawing 
her  to  his  side. 

"  Oh,  nolin'  much !  he  said,  What  was  my 
name  Y " 

«'  And  you  told  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  :  I  said  it  was  P(!t." 

"  Was  that  all  he  asked  you  V  " 

"  No,  sir  :  he  said,  Where  did  I  live  ?  an' 
did  I  like  the  ducks  V  an'  did  I  think  the 
park  was  nice  ?  an'  who  was  with  me  V  An' 
I  said  my  papa,  an'  I  showed  you  ;  and 
then  he  went  away.  An'  —  an'  — that  was 
all." 

Abel  gave  but  a  passing  thought  to  the 
circumstance  of  Robert  Thorpe's  having 
spoken  to  the  child,  supposing  that  he  had 
been  attracted  by  her  beauty,  as  others 
were,  and  luid  talked  with  her,  not  knowing 
that  she  belonged  to  him  ;  but  he  could  not 
banish  from  his  mind  the  image  of  the  fee- 
ble, tottering  father,  clinging  to  the  son  who 
had  ruined  him.  "  They  are  bitter  toward 
nie  yet,"  he  thought.  "  They've  not  out- 
lived their  old  inilignation  and  anger.  If 
they  knew  what  I  had  sulfered  for  them, 
of  niy  per'tence  and  remorse,  tbey  would 
pity  and  forgive  me,  even  as  I  do  them." 

One  evening,  not  long  after  that,  Abel 
went  home,  and  found  a  letter  lying  on  his 
table.  It  was  addressed  in  a  woman's 
hand,  scrawling  and  irregular ;  and  it  sur- 


prised him  gre.itly,  an  he  hail  no  correspond* 
ents,  especially  feminine.  With  a  present- 
iment of  trouble,  he  turned  it  over  an^l 
looked  at  it,  not  daring  to  br«ak  the  seal. 
At  last  he  summoned  courage  ;  and,  tearing 
it  open  with  a  nervous  hand,  he  reiid  the 
following :  — 

"  Dkau  Ahkl, —  I  wouldn't  troi'I)Ie  you, 
but!  know  I  haven't  long  to  live :  therelbro 
I  ask  you  to  come  to  me,  as  I  have  thin.;9 
of  importance  to  say  to  you.  Forget  all 
the  trouble  I've  made  you,  and  remem- 
ber oidy  when  I  was  good.  Don't  be  long 
aflcr  you  receive  the  letter,  in  eoniing,  oT 
perhaps  I  sha'n't  be  here.  You'll  find  mo 
at  No.  3,  Cottage  Place,  Pimlico.  Ask  ti)r 
Mrs.  Watson,  which  is  the  name  I'm 
known  by.  Vioi-kt." 

With  a  face  of  marble,  Abel  thrust  the 
letter  into  his  pocket,  sei/.ed  his  hat,  and 
rushed  out,  almost  pushing  over  Pet,  who 
was  hurrying  up  stairs  to  see  him.  Stoop- 
ing, he  caught  the  child  in  his  arms,  kissed 
her  wiih  a  strange  fervor,  and  bade  her  sco 
to  Mrs.  Hattle,  as  he  was  obliged  to  go  out, 
and  would  not  be  back  for  some  time. 
Then  he  hastened  into  the  street ;  and,  hail- 
ing a  fly,  he  told  the  man  to  drive  him  to 
Cottage  Place,  Pinilieo,  as  quickly  as  possi- 
ble. Arrived  there,  ho  knocked  at  the 
number  designated  in  Violet's  note.  A 
neat,  elderly  woman  answered  his  summons. 
To  his  iiujuiry,  "  If  Mrs.  Watson  lived 
there  Y  "  she  replied,  "  Yes,  sir  ;  and  I  sup- 
pose you're  the  gentleman  she's  expecting. 
She  said,  when  you  came,  I  was  to  show 
you  up  directly." 

A  moment  aller,  Abel  stood,  pale  and 
trembling,  at  Violet's  door.  The  woman 
tapped  lightly :  a  weak  voice  said,  "  Come," 
and  he  was  alone  in  the  presence  of  his 
lost  love.  She  was  propped  up  with  i)il- 
lows  on  a  low  bed  before  an  open  window. 
Some  woodbine  and  honeysuckle  trained 
over  the  casement  filled  the  roem  with 
fragrance ;  the  last  beams  of  the  sun  lay  in 
I  level  rays  over  the  bed,  and  the  thin  white 
!  hands    folded    patiently  on    her    breast 


I    r  • 


/    I     > 


1  IK)  corrc'ipoiiil- 

Witll  11  plH'SlMlt- 

cil  it  DVLT  an. I 
l)r«iik  the  ci'iil. 
'^f ;  iuiil,  Iciiriir^ 
111,  liu  rc'it<l  thu 


In't  troi'hic  v<ni, 
o  live :  thuri-loru 
i  1  have  tliiiv^s 
'Oil.  Forget  all 
)ii,    and  rcMiiiMii- 

Don't  1)0  loni^ 
\r,  in  coiiiiii;;,  oT 

You'll  rniil  mo 
mlico.  Ask  ti)r 
thu    namu    I'm 

ViOLKT." 

Abel  thrust  tbo 
zed  his  hat,  ami 
'r  over  l\'t,  wlio 
lee  him.     Stoop- 

his  arms,  kissed 
»nd  bade  Ikt  sco 
bli;j;ed  to  <so  out, 

for  some  time, 
street ;  and,  hail- 
to  drive  him  to 
quickly  as  poasi- 
knoeked  at  the 
iolet's  note.  A 
•ed  his  summons. 
I.  Watson  lived 
1,  sir  ;  and  I  sup- 
she's  expecting. 
!,  I  was  to  show 

stood,  palo  cand 
ir.  The  womaa 
ce  said, "  Come," 
presence  of  his 
ed  up  with  i)il- 
in  open  window, 
jysuckle  trained 
the  ro«m  with 
of  the  sun  lay  ia 
id  the  thin  whito 
on    her    breast 


/      •  \ 


A  WITHEEED  VIOLET.  *'* 

I  •  r„:„*  W..1  I      •'  What  ?  "  oried  Abel,   bewildered  and 


to  hear,  "  Abel  1  Abel !  " 

In  a  moment  he  was  on  his  knees  by  her 
side,  his  arms  round  her,  and  she  wcepin;; 
passionarely  with  her  face  pressed  close  to 
his.     lie  never  could  remember  distinctly 
what  passed  in  that  moment ;  for  his  emo- 
tion i)aralyzed  him.    In  thinkinji;  of  it  after- 
ward, he  could  only  recall  a  lew  broken 
sentences   in  which  she  implored  him    to 
forgive  her,  and  he,  in  a  voice  choked  with 
Boks  had  assured  her  that  she  was  for;,'iven 
Ion;;   a'„'o.    It  was  not  much,  but  it  was 
enou;jl  1?    There  are  some  fcelin;;*  too  deep 
for  words.    Then,  exhausted  by  her  ^yw\y 
ing,  she  threw  herself  back  on  her  pillow, 
ami  lay   with  closed  eyes,  like  one  in  a 
swoon.     Abel   leaned  over    her,  clasping 
her  hands  in  his,  and  weeping  bitterly,  his 
Boul  full  of  sorrow  and  pity  at  seeing  her 
but  the  wreck  of  herself.     Her  wan,  sunken 
face  showed  the  ravages  of  a  terrible  dis- 
ease, and  w.as  already  stamped  wiih  the  un- 
mistakable signs  of  approaching  dissolution. 
He  had  found  her  after  nine  long  years ; 
but,  as  he  had  said  to  poor  Old  Top  before 
his  death,  he  had  not    found    the    iresh, 
sweet  Violet  that  he  had  lost :  she  was  but 
the  shadow  of  his  early  love,  — a  crushed, 
scentless,  withered  flower. 

While  he  hung  over  her,  noting  every 
change  in  her  beloved  countenance  with 
an  a''nguish  too  deep  for  expression,  she 
opened  her  still  beautiiul  eyes  -,  and,  looking 
at  hiin  imploringly,  said  with  a  gasi)ing, 
broken  voice,  "  Abel,  tell  me  something  of 
my  child.  I'm  longing  to  hear  from  her. 
Tell  me  of  her." 

"Your  child,  Violet?"   then  a  sudden 
conviction  struck  him  like  a  blow.     "  Your 
-      child  1   Is  she  yours  ?  Was  it  you  who  guve 
her  to  me  1 " 

"  Yes,  Abel :  I  gave  her  to  you." 
"  Why   were   you   there   alone    in    the 
darkness  of  night  with  your  child  ?  " 


face,  shrinking  from  the  blow  which  ho  felt 
he  was  about  to  receive. 

"  Aliel,"   she   said   in   a   weak,   excited 
voice,  "try  and  be  calm  while  1  tell  you 
all.     I'm  so  feeble  that  you  luusln't  agitato 
me  too  much,  or  I  can't  never  say  what  I 
want  to.     It  was  llobert  Thoriie  who  "  — 
Abel  clenche.l  his  hands,  anil  groaned  aloud 
— '<  though,  as  God  is  my  witness.  I  didn't 
know  his  true  name  until  long   aller.     I 
don't  want  to  excuse  myself,  and  I  won't : 
I'll  tell  you  the  whole  truth,  Aliel.      I  loved 
him,  — yes,  I   loved   him   so  well    that    I 
would  willingly  have  died  for  him.     I  •lidn't 
count  myself  as  any  thing  besi.le  him.     I 
worshipped  him    from    the    first    day   he 
bought   my  flowers  on  the  Mansioii-liouso 
step's.     Then   you   took   me   away,    an  1  I 
didn't  see  him  for  a  long  time.     1  tried  to 
forget  him,  and  be  happy  with  you,  —  yos,  I 
tried  hard,  Abel,  to  be  happy  wiih    you 
and  dear  old  daddy.     I  know  what   you 
would  say :  you  think   I  don't  know  that 
he's  dead,  but  I  do.     It  was  a  long  time 
a. -o,  just  after  I  went  away,  that  he  died  ; 
and  jierhaps  I  helped  kill  him.     I've  been 
many  a  tinv.  since  to  the  old  cellar.  Just  to 
see  the  place  where  we  were  cliildrtsn  to- 
gether,  and  so  happy  with  him.     When 
you  took  me  away,  I  thought  IM  never  see 
liobert    lliorpo     again.      I    didn't    even 
know  his  name,  who  he  was,  nor  where  ho 
lived  ;  but  still,  though  I  tried  hard  enough, 
I  was  sure  that  I  could  never  forget  him. 
It  was  toward  spring,  when,  one  day,  he 
hapjieued  to  be  passing  the  shop  in  Hol- 
born,  and  saw  mo.     It's  no  use  to  tell  you 
all   that  followed.    Abel,   I've  been  wick- 
eder than  you  ever  thought ;  and  even  then 
1  deceived  you  time  and  time  again." 

"  O  Violet!  don't  tell  me  that :  you  break 

my  heart.     I  thought  you  good  then,"criod 

Abel,his  pale  features  working  ctmvulsively. 

"  Ko,  Abel :  I  wasn't  good  even  before  I 


..  I  was  there  many  times  before.     I  was  |  left   you.    I    deceived  you    imd  met  him 
waitlgibr  a  chance'to  see  its  father."         1  over  and  over  when  you  didn't  susi>oct  .t. 


-..J 


mmismi^m^sim^^imm^ 


M 


R0PK8  OP  BAND. 


Wliili'  you  were  soiirdiiiv.;  for  nic,  ami 
advurtioin;;,  I  wiiH  in  lod^iii^H  not  tlir  from 
you.  It  WiiH  all  vt'ry  (iiuiply  pluiiiii'd  :  I 
walki'il  out  of  till!  (iliop  as  usual, —  al- 
tliou^^h  my  lifart  was  lu'arly  l)reakiu;;  at  tliu 
tliou;,'lit  of  your  anil  daddy's  sorrow  when 
you  would  find  mi'  jjoiio  ;  and,  at  t\w  corni-r 
of  tlu!  street,  I  met  Uobert.  I  ditln'l 
know  where  I  was  j;oii)};:  I  didn't  eare, 
BO  tliat  I  was  with  him.  He  sliowt^d  me 
your  adverti.xement :  we  reail  it  to^ietlier  ; 
anrl  he.  knew  tlien  who  you  were,  tiiou;;h  I 
didn't  suspeet.  1  fhouj^ht  him  to  be  t'harles 
AVatson,  —  that  was  wliat  lie  ealled  himself 
nt  that  lime.  I  took  that  name,  and  siiiee 
have  always  been  known  as  Mis  Watson. 
It  was  more  than  two  years  alVer  that  I  aeei- 
di^ntally  found  out  his  real  name  was  Robert 
Thorpe.  Then  I  pitied  you  more  than  ever, 
beeausc  the  one  you  still  trusted  as  your 
friend  had  wron-jed  you  so.  For  a  long 
time  we  were  happy  toj^elher  "  — 

"  And  poor  oltl  daddy  was  dying,  and  my 
heart  was  breaking  for  you,"  interrupted 
Abel  bitterly. 

'•  Yes,  I  know  it :  I've  felt  it  all  sinee  ;  but 
'  still  I  was  happy  then,  —  so  hajipy  that  to 
think  ot  it  reeoneiles  me  to  all  that  followed. 
Ho  was  very  jjroud  of  my  beauty,  —  1  was 
vain  then,  Abel;  but  I'm  not  now,  beeause 
I've  learned  the  true  value  of  good  looks ; 
they're  a  poor  inheritance  for  one  like  me, 
—  and  he  bou;^ht  me  jiretty  dresses,  bonnets, 
and  jewels,  and  hired  a  carriage  tor  me  that 
I  nii;^bt  ride  in  the  park  like  a  lady  while 
Le  was  at  his  business.  You  know,  I  always 
wanted  fine  things ;  so  I  enjoyed  them 
when  I  got  iheiii  :  and  I  suppose  you'll  feel 
sorry,  Abel,  when  i  tell  you  that  I  never 
regretted  what  I'd  done.  Sometimes  I 
used  to  think  of  poor  old  d.addy's  warning, 
and  his  rojies  of  sand,  and  laugh  to  iiiy- 
gelf,  and  call  it  all  nonsense,  because  I  didn't 
see  the  end.  When  we're  so  happy  we 
never  can  feel  that  we  can  come  to  be 
wrelehcd.  llobert  loved  me  so  that  I  never 
thought  he'll  change  ;  and  he  was  so  proud 
of  nil- 1  He  delighted  to  have  me  make 
myself  as  pretty  as  possible.  Then  he 
would  take  me  to  the  play,  and  be  perfectly 


happy  when  all  tho  glasses  were  turned 
toward  our  box.  Yes  :  he  loved  me  then 
I'm  8uru  of  it;  and  I  worshippeil  him. 
You  mustn't  think,  Abel,  that  1  ever  loved 
you  as  I  loved  him.  Now  I  know  [  only 
loved  you  as  a  brother.  We  were  brought 
up  together,  and  how  could  it  ever  have  been 
any  thing  else'^  " 

"  Uon't,  Violet,  don't,  for  God's  sake  !  " 
groaned  AIhjI. 

"  It  isn't  because  I  want  to  hurt  you, 
indeed  it  isn't,"  she  returned,  with  a  strange 
mixtiiru  of  heartlessness  and  pity  ;  "  but  I 
want  to  be  truthful  to  you  now,  beeause 
I've  been  false  enough  all  niy  life.  I  wish 
I  could  let  it  end  here,  and  not  tell  you  any 
more  ;  but,  if  I  should,  you'd  think  me  bet- 
ter than  I  am,  and  there  mustn't  be  any 
deception  when  we're  going  into  eternity. 
I  must  say  solemnly,  Abel,  that,  though  I've 
much  to  blame  llobert  Thorpe  for,  I  believe 
he  loved  me  then  ;  and,  if  I'd  been  a  good 
woman,  I  believe  he'd  love  me  now.  I 
don't  lay  all  that  has  happened  to  me  at  his 
door.  It  was  partly  my  f  lult,  —  my  vanity 
and  weakness;  and  perhaps,  also,  the 
thought  of  what  I  had  sprung  from.  With- 
out doubt  I  inherited  evil  from  the  unhap- 
py creature  who  gave  me  being.  I  don't 
think  Goil  can  e.xpect  (juite  as  much  from 
we  poor  weeds  who  grow  out  of  vile  soil." 

"  But,  Violet,  remember  the  best  old  man 
that  ever  lived  brought  you  up  from  a  child, 
and  taught  you  only  good :  and  he  was  one 
of  the  jioor  unfortunates.  Think  of  his  lift', 
and  don't  say  lliat  it  isn't  possible  lor  us  to 
be  virtuous." 

"I've  thought  of  it  all,  Abel.  I've 
thought  of  you  and  daddy,  how  good  you 
both  were ;  but  I  never  could  have  been 
like  you.  He  and  you  were  exceptions. 
You  never  had  any  temptations  to  do  differ- 
ent ;  but  I  was  tainted  ii-om  the  first.  I 
was  always  devoured  with  the  desire  for 
finery  and  pleasure ;  and  it  was  only  you 
and  dear  dailily  that  restrained  uie  so 
long.  If  I'd  luarried  yon,  Abel,  deny,  you 
wouldn't  have  been  hapjiy  :  I  should  have 
tormented  your  life.  It  was  best  as  it  was  ; 
and  I've  nothing  to  reproach  myself  with 


\   ly  ' 


A  WITHERED  VIOLET. 


87 


9  wciv  liirncd 
1()V(mI  inc  then 
rHliippi'iI  liiiii. 
t  I  (^vor  lovt'd 
1  know  I  unly 
li  were  brou^rht 
ever  havo  bt-en 

God's  8!ikc !  " 

t  to  hurt  you, 
witliii  stnu)<^e 
pity  ;  "  but  I 
now,  bi'causo 
r  Mi'ti.  I  wish  . 
ot  tell  you  any 
think  uie  bet- 
lustn't  1)0  any 
into  eternity, 
at,  tlioujih  I'vb 
)e  tor,  1  believe 
1  been  a  yood 
I  inu  now.  I 
ud  to  nie  at  his 
,  —  my  vanity 
pis,  also,  the 
:  i'roui.  Wiih- 
jni  the  unhafH 
eiii<:;.  I  don't 
iis  niueh  from 
of  vile  soil." 
le  best  old  man 
p  iVoui  a  ehild, 
nd  he  was  one 
link  of  his  lite, 
sible  lor  us  to 

,  Abel.  I've 
jow  good  you 
ild  havo  been 
re  exceptions, 
as  to  do  diU'er- 
i  the  iirst.  I 
he  desire  lor 
was  only  you 
mined  mo  so 
,U1,  deny,  you 
I  should  havo 
best  as  it  was  ; 
li  niyi^elf  with 


on  that  nccount.  But  T  must  po  on,  nntl  pot ' 
this  miserable  contension  oil' my  mind,  or  I 
sha'n't  have  strength  to  finish.  I  was  as  , 
happy  as  I  cotdd  be  for  three  years.  We 
lived  a  <::\y  life.  Uol)ert  brought  a  preat 
many  younp  men  to  see  me;  for  he  was 
prouil  to  display  liis  property.  I  was  ad- 
mired and  flattered,  and  oflTered  many  heau- 
til'ul  presents,  whieh  I  reeeivcd  seeretly, 
beeaijse  he  was  proud  and  jealous,  and 
didn't  like  me  to  tiike  things  from  others. 
Do  you  reniend)er  that  u;;ly  brooeh  I  want- 
ed 80  mueh,  Abel,  and  how  you  wouldn't 
buy  it  for  me,  and  I  was  determined  to 
have  it,  and  pot  it  slyly  V  That  was  my  first 
deception,  and  the  beginning  of  all.  And 
such  a  worthless  thing  too !  since  then  I've 
had  real  emeralds  and  diamonds  almost  as 
beautiful  m  those  we  saw  at  the  Tower  that 
day  when  wo  were  children." 

"  ()  Violet  I  how  can  you  ?  Pray  don't 
recall  those  things !  It  tears  my  heart  to 
hear  you  speak  of  them." 

"  Why  should  it,  Abel  ?  why  should  it 
hurt  you  to  recall  them?  I  like  to  think 
of  them  sometimes :  I  like  to  think  that  I 
was  innocent  once.  But,  as  I  was  saying, 
Robert  didn't  like  me  to  receive  presents, 
and  I  did  all  the  same ;  besides,  I  was  very 
imprudent  and  foolish  ;  I  encouraged  visit- 
ors when  ho  was  away,  until  at  last  he 
discovered  it,  and  was  dreadfully  angry 
and  jealous.  Then  he  watcheil,  and  sus- 
pected, and  blamed  me  even  when  I  was 
innocent.  Just  before  my  baby  was  born, 
we  had  a  final  quarrel.  Ho  declared  the 
child  was  not  his,  though  I  swore  solenmly 
before  God  that  it  was ;  for  I  was  true  to 
him,  Abel,  until  ho  deserted  me.  Alter 
ho  loft  me,  I  quitted  my  expensive  lodgings, 
sold  some  of  my  jewels,  and  took  cheap 
but  respectable  rooms,  where  my  child  was 
born.  You  might  think  that  my  being  a 
mother  would  havo  changed  me,  and  made 
me  better ;  but  it  didn't :  my  heart  was  too 
full  of  pride  and  anger,  and  I  never  sought 
a  reconciliation  with  Robert.  In  fact,  1 
•didn't  Wiint  to :  I  was  tired  of  his  jealousy 
and  suspicion ;  and,  besides,  I  knew  he  was  in 
debt,  and  that  there  must  be  a  change  soon ; 


and  I  wasn't  contented  to  live  humbly,  even 
with  him.     I  thought  of  this  all :  lor,  owing 
to  poor  old  daddy's   excellent  teaching,  I 
was  |irudent  in  managing  t'or  my  own  in- 
terest;  and  I  was  determineil,  as  I  liail  lost 
all  else,  to  sell  myself  fo  the  highest  bidder. 
Hut  my  chihl  was  a  drawback  lo  my  ''itnro 
suocess.    I  loved  it  in  a  way, —  yes.  Abel,  nuw 
I  know  I  loved  it;  and,  if  thert^  had  been 
enough  good  in  me,  it  might  have  saved  me. 
I  was  angry  and  imbittered  against  Hoi)- 
ert :  the  ehild  was  his,  and  he  had  deserted 
mo  just  when  I  needed  his  care  and  ten- 
derness most.     lie  alone  had  the  right  to 
provide  for  it,  and  ho  had  left  it  to  mu.     I 
thought  it  all  over  for  a  long  time,  and  at 
last  I  resolved  to  see  him  by  some  means, 
put  the  child  into  his  arms,  and  leave  him 
to  su[>port  and  care  for  it.     I  had  not  tlio 
courage  or  boldness   to  go  into  Ids  olliee, 
and  ccJnfront  him  ljefi)re  his  father;  so,  as  I 
had  heard  him  say  that  he  worked  some- 
times until  late,  ami  came  out  through  a 
side  passage  into  Thames  Street,  I  deter- 
mined to  go  there,  and  wait  for  him.     For 
several  nights   I  watched  lor  hours,  but   I 
didn't  see  him.     One  night  I  heard  somo 
one,  and  I  thought  it  was  he ;  but,  instead, 
you  came  out.     I  knew  you  instantly,  and 
was  frightened,  and  drew  back  in  the  shad- 
ow of  the  wall.     A  few  nights  after  I  went 
again,  and   had   only   been  there   a   little 
while,  when  you  came,  and  leaned  against 
the  door,  as  if  you,  too,  were  waiting  for 
somo  one.     I  saw  your  face  once  in  a  ray 
of  light  from  Thames  Street ;  and  it  was 
ghastly  pale,  and  full  of  anger,  and  I  caught 
the   glitter    of  somo    instrument    in   your 
hand :  thou  I  thought  you  had  learned  all, 
and  had  come  to  be  revenged  on   Robert 
Tlior[)0.      I   was   in    dreadful    agony,   for 
even  then  1  loved  him  enough  to  wish  to 
save   him.     While    I    leaned    against   the 
wall,  almost  fainting  with  fear,  you  spoke, 
and  your  voice  touched  my  heart.     Some- 
thing of  the  old  feeling  of  those  iimocent 
days  returned ;  and   it  seemed   as   though 
dear  daddy  came  to  me,  and  said  soltly, 
"  Give   the    child  to    Abel."      Then    you 
spoke  again,  and  came  toward  me ;  and, 


\  ; 


I  ' 


I  - 


>:ffiB(Wrar; 


-.;«i«sr*ssr:^sswfs?as53=w«sf^'" 


58 


HOPES  OF  BAND. 


ioarco  knnwliia  wimt  I  iM,  I  r.-nclu-.l  it  to  ] 
you  ;  you  took  If,  uiul  I  liiirrU'il  nwiiy,  l'«-<'l- 1 
111'.'  tliat  I  lia.l  Hitv.-il  yon  liolli,  im  wt-ll  n* 
my  liiil'v.  I  knew  you  woiilil  not  (•oiiiiiit 
a  iTlnii' Willi  tliiit  inixK'uiit  in  your  iniiiH ; 
nuil,  .\l»'l.  I  kn.^w  you  ho  well,  lliat  I  wiis 
Hur.'  von  wonl.l  iu'v.t  iil)anilon  it,  anil  that 
yon   would    tiwli   it   to   1m!   virlnons   ami 

liapps" 

'•6  VioU^t,  Violet!  wliy  <li<ln't  you 
upcak  to  Ml.-  Y  wliy  ilidn't  yon  t.-ll  in.!  wlio 
yonw.n'V  I  wonl.l  liavi- Ihmu  y..in' Irii'lul, 
yo.nl.rotlur.  1  wonl.l  Invu  huvc.I  you  IWmi 
furtliiT  sin,"  cri.-.l  Alu-l  rt'in-oai'lilully. 

«  It'.s  no  UK.!  to  think  ..f  that,  my  poor 
Abel.      It   wouliln't   have   lii'.-n    lliu   luni't 
pood.     Yon  .'onl.ln't    hav.!    naveil  ,nu-.     1 
wouldn't  1k!  wive.l:  1  like.l  my  >*inlul  lite 
too   well.     It   wad  only  after   my   h.-allh 
pave   wav.  ami   I  ktu-w  I  mni»t   die,  that  I 
rei)cnte.ran.l  felt  s.H-ry  for  it  all ;  an.l  even 
now  gomeiime.H  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  i.enilent 
cn.ai'^h,   an.l    I    think  that   perhaps,    if   I 
Bhonld  live,  I  nii-ht  S"  ''■^'-'k  to  it  a;^ain. 
Oh.  it's  dreadful  to  he  »o  wi.-ked  and  nneer- 
tain  when  I'm  so  near  death  !  "     Here  h.'r 
voiee  waH  broken  with  f.ol.i',  ami   she  we|.t 
passionatidy    for    a    tew    moments.    Aliel 
cootheil  h.-r  a»   well  as   lie  eoul.l,  tor  his 
own  soul  was  sinartint;  under  iho  torture. 
At  last  she   rejraiiie.l  her   ealinness,    and 
resumed   her   .ml   story.      '-I    m'Vi-r    lost 
8i;;llt  of  you,  Aliel,  IWini  the  luiur  I  lett  you. 
1  knew  of  dear  old  da.l.ly's  .lealli,  ami  how 
atU'rward  you  wont  to  live  in  the  rooms  in 
Little  Easteheap  that  we  looke.l  at  to-elh- 
er.    Lamb,  the  faithiul  ereatnrc  who  let  yon 
in,  an.l   who  has  been  with  nic  tor  years, 
knew  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  liattle,  your  land- 
la.ly,  ami  ihrontih  her  I  learne.l  that  you 
iut.uded    to  keep  the   child  :  then    I  was 
,,uile   easy    almut    it,  because   1   knew    it 
wonl.l   bo   well   cared   tbr.    I've  seen  her 
Al,cl,  —  I've,  often  seen  her  in  the  jiark  with 
you ;  an.l  I've  so  longed  to  take  her  in  my 
arms   and  kiss  her.  but  I  di.ln't   dare   to. 
She's   beautiful,  isn't  she  V    ami   I'm   sure 
she's  a  sood  child.     Wli;-  do  you  call  her 
Pet  ?    Mrs.  Lamb  found  out  that  she  bad 
no  other  name."  « 


"  She  was  always  oalle.l  that  frcnn  tho 
first.  1  wante.l  lo  name  her  tiir  y.m ;  but  I 
hadn't  the  coura^je  to  hear  it  eonstanlly," 
i-etiirm-d  Abel,  averting  his  fa.e  lo  liiilo 
the  tears  that  tilled  his  I'yes. 

"Poor  soul!"  sai.l  Viol.-t,  laying;  her 
feverish  han.l  on  his.  "  Hav.'n'l  y.m  not 
over  that  yet  Y  I  thoujiht  you'.l  forjjottcn 
me  Ion}?  a(io,  and  hated  in.',  too,  bilte-ly." 

"I've  never  hated  y.m,  Viol.t.  I'hero 
was  a  time  when  I  felt  hard  towar.1  yon; 
but  I  siHin  <;.>t  over  it,  an.l  Ibrgavo  yon,  and 
lon^e  1  to  see  you." 

"Ah,  Abell  you  were  jroo.l,  too  fi.Kid 
for  me.  If  IM  been  dillerent  I  niinht  have 
been  hai>|)y  with  y.JU  to-day,  instea.l  of 
lyin^  here  r.-penlinj,'  of  my  sins.  Ooil 
knows  I'm  thankful  that  one  linnian  being 
has  remained  faithful  t.)  me  1  Unt  tell  mo 
how  did  you  know  that  it  was  Robert 
Thorpe  Y" 

"  1  never  knew  it,  Violet,  until  I  heard  it 
this  in.mient  from  your  lips." 

"Then  why  di.l  yo"  tiuarrel  with  him, 
and  leave  his  emphiy  V  " 

"  It  was  another  matter  entirely ;  and  I'm 
thankful  I  .li.ln't  know  this  then,  because 
it  wonl.l  have  maddened  me  beyond  all 
...ntrol."  Tlien  Abel  told  her  brietly  of  his 
trouble  with  Ilobert  Thorp.!,  of  his  terrible 
t.'iniitation,  an.l  of  his  salvation  throujrh 
the  child  that  she  ha.l  put  into  his  arms. 

"  How  thankful  I  am  now  that  I  listened 
to  that  voice  in  my  heart !  Isn't  it  a  proof 
that  those  who  love  us  watch  over  us  after 
ileath  Y  I  told  you  I  thought  daddy  was 
near  me.  Now  I  know  that  Go.l  sent  him 
to  save  you.  Dear,  dear,  old  dadtly,  —  he's 
often  been  with  me  since  I've  lain  here 
al.me,  thiiikin;r  of  every  thin^' ;  an.l  I  know 
by  that  he  tbr^ave  me  lietbre  he  dit!d." 

"He  (lid,  Violet:  hu  sjmke  of  you  sO 
swe.!ily,  and  made  me  promise  to  be  kind 
to  you  if  I  ever  tbnn.l  yon  ;  and  he  MX  you 
six  pounils,  that  he  had  saved  tor  you,  with 
his  love  and  lor^iveness." 

"  O  Abel  I  I'm  so  thankful  that  he  didn't 
die  feeling  angry  against  me.  1  woul'ln't 
have  courage  to  meet  him  in  another  world 
if  1  know  it ;  but  the  money,  —  1  don't  want 


A  withkuki)  violkt. 


r>\) 


lit  rroin    tlio 

)r  you  ;  liiK  I 

ciiiistanllv," 

fan!   to   lildo 

Invln;^  luT 
■n't   you  j;ot 

tl  liir^otttn 
(1.  l)itfi'-ly." 

)li't.  riicro 
tiiwaril  ynu ; 
^avt!  yon,  and 

1,  too   };iM)(l 

I  iMfiht  have  ' 

y,  iiistcatl   of 

'    hiriH.      (lod 

liiinian  hoinir 

Hut  ti-ll  mo 

was   Uoburt 

intil  I  huard  it 

I'R-I  with  him, 

tirt>ly ;  and  I'm 
tlirn,  becauso 
lie  beyond  all 
LT  briefly  of  his 
,  of  his  terrible 
vatioii  through 
nto  his  arms. 
'  that  I  listened 
Isn't  it  a  i)roof 
h  over  us  after 
^ht  daddy  was 
,  God  sent  him 
1  daddy,  —  he's 
I've  lain  hero 
t\'^  ;  and  I  know 
e  he  died." 
oke  of  you  so 
lise  to  be  kind 
and  he  lert  you 
ed  lor  you,  with 

il  that  he  didn't 
lie.  I  woul'ln't 
n  another  world 
,  —  I  don't  want 


it  ;  I've  more  than  I  should  need  it'  I  lived  i 
tor  liKinibs,  whieh  I  !-hii'ii't.  I  sold  all  my 
jewels  that  I  li>>U);ht  ut  such  a  |irie(<,  and  ' 
hired  ibis  little  (ilta^'e  todle  in.  I've  been 
here  nine  iiniiill.'<,  and  I've  been  very  eoni- 
Ibrtable  with  Lanili.  There's  enciiii;h  to 
bury  nie  when  I'm  ;;i)ne,  and  someibiirj;  for 
her.  I  floii't  want  to  pive  my  elilM  any 
lliiii'.'.  Miiiiey  f^ot  in  an  evil  way  would 
only  lie  a  eiirKe." 

"  .She  d<in't  iieeil  it,  Violet.  I  shall  pro- 
vide tlir  her  as  loie^  as  I  live." 

"  Now,  Abel,  I've!  told  you  all  but  the 
parlieiilars  of  the  last  five  years.  They've 
been  bud  enou'jfh,  and  it's  no  use  to  harrow 
your  leeliii'^s  iiy  dwellinj;  on  tlieiii,  (iod 
don't  require  it  of  me.  I've  been  a  J.'^eMt^in- 
lier,  and  I've  suifered  ;  Imt  perhaps  I've  not  i 
snlVered  half  enough,  liir  it's  more  mercy 
than  I  deserve  to  be  taken  away  yonn;;.  It's 
what  I've  hoped  and  prayed  lor,  and  (lod's 
been';^K)<l  to  listen  to  nw.  Now  I've  made 
my  ])«'aee  with  every  one,  and  I  don't  e.ire 
how  soon  I  j;o.  Yesterday  I  wrote  to 
Kobert  Thorpe,  telliu'^  him  that  i  was 
dyiiiu'.  I  want  him  In  know  that  I  was  in- 
noi'eiit  when  he  ae<Mised  me;  ami  now, 
surely,  on  my  death-bed,  lie  won't  disbelieve 
me.  I  tolij  him  about  Pet,  —  how  beaulil'tll 
she  is,  and  how  kind  you've  been  to  her." 

"  O  Violet,  Violet  I  why  di<l  \ou  tell  him 
that  1  have  his  child?  He'll  take  her  from 
me  :  lie'il  rob  me  of  my  only  treasure,  my 
only  liappiness  I  I've  loved  her  always  as 
tlioiii^h  she  were  riiy  own  ;  and,  now  that  I 
know  she's  yours,  I  love  her  a  thousand 
times  more.  He'll  elaim  her,  aa<l  I  shall 
have  to  give  her  up,"  cried  Abel,  in  extreme 
distress. 

"  Don't  blame  me :  she's  his  child.  When 
you  think  of  it  calmly,  you'll  see  that  I  did 
i'i;j;ht  in  tellin<^  him.  Besides,  Abel,  which 
is  the  most  unhappy,  —  he  or  you  V  He's  a 
poor,  ruined  youn^  man,  with  nothing  in 
the  world.  Perlmps  he  needs  the  child 
more  than  you  do.  And  then,  she's  his: 
il'  he  wants  her,  he  certainly  has  a  ri;;ht  to 
her;  but  don't  fret.  I'm  sure  he  won't 
take  her  :  he  can't  proviile  I'or  her  now.  and 
she'd  oidy  be  a  burden  on  him."  i 


"  'Hiat  may  be  he  may  not  take  her 
away  at  present,  but  I'll  iu'ver  li'cl  any 
surely.  1  shall  never  leel  a^ain  as  tliiiu;;h 
•he  beloii'.'ed  to  me,  I  shall  never  know 
anollier  happy  day  with  her.  Violet,  you 
ini^ht  Inive  spareil  me  this.  You  mi);la 
li.ive  led  him  In  ignorance  re-peciiiii;  a 
child  he  disowneil  beliire  it  wa'<  born." 

"  lie  reasonablt^,  Abel,"  slw  returned 
with  somethin}{  of  her  old  obsiina<'y  and 
sellishness,  *'  and  look  ut  it  as  you  ou;;lit  to. 
You're  better  than  I  am,  and  you  ou;;bt  to 
see  that  it  was  my  duty  to  clear  myself 
beliire  I  died  ;  and  how  could  I  s])eak  of 
the  child,  without  tellin;;  him  where  she 
was  '(  It  makes  no  ilill'erence  if  you  blame 
me  :  I  think  I  did  i  i;;ht.  Ihit  that's  not  nil, 
.\bel,"  she  added,  bursting  into  tears,  ami 
clin^iin;^  to  his  hands.  "  I  <'an'l  jjet  over 
my  habits  of  deception.  Mammy  Flint's 
lessons  clinix  to  me  yet.  My  real  reason  is, 
that  I  still  love  him,  and  want  him  to  tijiiik 
of  me  sometimes.  I  know  if  he  lias  the  child 
she'll  remind  him  of  me  ;  and  I'll  never  bo 
(piite  liir^otten.  U  Abel  I  I  love  him  yet.  I'd 
;ii\e  worlils,  if  1  had  tbciii,  to  see  him  but 
Ibr  one  hour,  —  to  lay  my  head  on  his  shoul- 
der a^rain,  to  leel  his  hand  smooih  my  hair. 
It  seems  as  though  I  couldn't  die  without 
seeiii'^  him,  and  yet  I  must;  ii)r  if  I  see  liiin 
I'll  want  to  live,  and  I'll  he  an|j!ry  against 
God  it'  he  takes  me  away.  Now  1  must  bo 
calm  and  |ieniteiit  ami  patient,  that  I  may 
cleanse  and  purity  my  soul  for  the  last 
jjrcat  (hankie.  There's  notliin;^  more  in 
this  world  that  I  desire,  but  a  si;;ht  of 
Hobert;  and  it's  required  of  me  as  ])art 
of  my  penance  to  deny  myself  that  happi- 
ness ;  so  1  must,  or  Christ  will  never  let  mo 
sit  at  his  feet  with  the  other  Magdalen." 
Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  remained  lorn  Ion-;;  limeiiideeplhou;^ht, 
while  Abel  watched  her  silently.  At  last 
she  luoki'd  up,  and  said,  with  a  patient 
entreaty  in  her  voice,  "  1  thou'jlit  that  was 
all  :  but  there's  another  tbinj:,  Abel.  I 
w,.af  to  see  my  chilil.  You  must  bring 
lier  to  me.  I  must  hold  her  in  my  arms. 
She  must  see  her  mother  oiu-e,  so  that  she 
will  remember  her ;  tor  1  don't  want  to  bo 


■5? 


6» 


IIOPK8  OF   SAND. 


ftirtrolli'ii.     ()    Aljil !  I  don't  wiint   to   bu  fi-ntcil  it'  I   don't  spc   Iut.      I'vo  [{ivon  up 

for;lolli'ii  liy  every  oiii'."  '  liiU-rt,  liut  lot  iiu-  H'e  liis  cliilil." 

"  Ycm'll    nt'vtT   lie  tiir'^dttrn,   Vii)lt't,  hy        "  Ymi  uliall  we  Iht,  Violet:  !»•  ciiliii,  ami 

0(i<'  :   llif  only  one  yoii'vi-  lu'vcr  lovi-il   will  yon   rliall    mm-    Iut.       I'll    hrin;;    Iht   I'lirly 

rrrni'inbcr  you  iilwayii.     Yon  tliink  of  liiin,  to-niorrow,      I'd  no   tlion^lit   Hnrli   as  yuu 

i>nt   yon    ticvcr   tliink    of  my  a;jony.     My  iircnxc  uw  of:    I   wax  unly  tliinkin;^  of  iliu 


iii'url'N  l.ri'akin<{;  and  yim  liavr  not  ii  word 
of  romli)rt  for  mr,"  fried  Aliel,  for;{etlin;{ 
the  )>tern  eompoFiire  lie  liiul  t'oried  ti|Min 
liinicejl',  while  he  wept  pa^iHioiialely  over 
lier,  welting  her  face  with  hii  hot  teant. 

The  poor,  weak,  MelfiNh  mini  wiin  liinched 
to  ilN  deptliK  hy  Ihi";  ami,  putting  her 
feeble  arniH  ronml  bin  neck,  die  drew  hi-i 
face  ilown  toiler",  and  kiHxed  him  with  nor- 
rowfiil  fervor.  Then  nIiu  mild,  witii  Inux- 
lilvMnlble  jialbon  In  her  voice,  "  AIh-I,  dear, 
r>e  ({iven  yon  the  very  bent  I  had  to  (?ive. 
I'vi)  loved  yon  with  iho  only  pnni  love  of 
>ny  lite.  I've  loveil  yon  lu  ii  hlitter  lovew  a 
brother." 

That  wnn  enough:  it  reachc<l  the,  very 
dcptliH  of  IiIh  heart,  and  comfurted  him  an 
nothiii'^  else  conld.  "  Tliiink  you,  darlini;," 
lie  replied.  Htru;.';ilin^{  hard  ((>r  eompoHure. 
'•  Y'oii've  (jiven  me  Homethini;  to  live  on.  I 
ehall  bear  it  all  belter  now." 

"Try  to  be  calm  and  happy,  .Vbd  ;  don't 
Waste  any  Ic'clin;^  on  uie;  imleeil,  I'm  not 
worth  it.  I've  made  you  siill'ur  ciion^h 
already,  and  you've  been  s-o  ^ood  to  me. 
1  don't  deserve  such  a  friend.  There's 
only  one  thin<;  more  you  can  ilo;  and  that 
is  to  brinn  I'et  ns  soon  as  possible,  lor  I've 
not  Ion;;  to  wait  for  her." 

Abel  niivdo  no  reply  :  he  was  thinking  of 
the  ed'eet  such  a,  sad  scene  would  have 
upon  the  sensitive  vhiUl.  Violet  noticeii 
his  liesitation,  and,  mistaking'  its  cause,  cried 
passionately,  "  Yon  won't,  brin;;  lier  1 
you're  afraid  her  own  mother  will  pollute 
her.  \'ou  don't  want  such  an  iniKxient  to  be 
clasped  in  the  arms  of  a  sinner.  Abel,  that's 
cruel  I  Haven't  1  earned  thu  ri^jht  to  see  her 
now  'i*  For  nine  months  I've  been  purifying 
myself  to    be  lit  to  touch  her.     I've  shed  j 


sad  lm|ires!<i(in  it  will  make  on  lier  happy 
little  iieart ;  but  I'll  brin<{  lu-r ;  you  sliall 
H»'«'  her." 

"Tliank  you,  Abel,"  ghe  replied  ^Tate- 
fully;  "now  I'm  <'ontented;  but  biiii;^  lier 
early,  for  I'm  so  exhausted  perhaps  I 
slia'n't  last  thron^li  the  day.  I'll  try  and 
be  patient  until  hIk^  comes.  Call  I>amb, 
pleas(>.  U'h  time  I  had  my  tonic  ;  and  I 
need  it." 

Tiie  old  woman  came  In  sufHy  and  sad- 
ly, at  Abel's  Mummona,  and  leaned  over  the 
bed. 

"  Ah,  Lamhy  dear,  it's  you,"  she  said, 
raisin;{  her  beautiful  eyes  and  smilin;j 
;;ently,  "it's  all  settled.  This  is  Abel,  my 
brother  Abel,  tliat  I've  told  you  of  «o 
ollea.  II(?'s  |)romised  to  brin^  the  child 
to-morrow,  ami  I've  nothin;{  niori\  to  ask. 
Now  jiive  me  my  tonic,  and  try  to  keep 
lite  in  me  until  site  comes." 

Then  Abel,  seeing  how  exhausted  she 
was,  and  how  much  she  needed  rest,  kissed 
her  tenderly,  and  went  away  promisin;^  to 
return  early  the  next  day.  The  ibllowln;^ 
morning  he  obtaineil  leave  of  absence  from 
lii§  desk  ;  and  by  tellin;r  Mrs.  liattle  that 
lie  was  )!oin;r  to  take  I'el  to  visit  a  lady 
whom  he  hail  known  since  childhood,  and 
who  was  very  ill,  her  curiosity  was  satis- 
fieil,  and  she  dressed  the  child  without 
overwhelming;  him  with  ((uestions  which 
he  was  in  no  mood  to  answer. 

When  he  reached  No.  3,  Cottage  I'lace, 
Mrs.  Lamb  met  him  at  the  door;  and  to  his 
an.\ious  iiKpiirics,  she  re|>lied  that  Mrs. 
Watson  was  comlbrtable,  had  rested  well 
all  ni<;ht,  and  was  waitin;;  patiently  to  see 
the  little  ^irl. 

Now,  darling,"  said   Abel,   bctbre   ho 


tears  enough  to  wash  me  clean.  Christ'  took  the  child  into  the  room,  "this' poor 
won't  refuse  me  no  more  than  he  did  that  lady  is  very  ill ;  and  you're  not  to  disturb 
other  sinner;  then,  don't  you  be  hard  on  her.  You  must  be  good  and  gentle, and  go 
mc,  Abel ;  don't,  I  pray.     I  sha'n't  die  con-    to  her  directly  she  asks  you  " 


«       ■   ' 


•axRsss^amataSMHMM 


A   WITII'CIIKI)   VIOLKT. 


« 


vc  ^ivon  up 
It 

lit-  calm,  mill 
^  licr  I'lirlv 
tiii'li  us  yi'M 
iklii;^  III'  tliu 
1  liiT  Iwppy 
r ;  yiiii  .•.hall 

splictl  jiratc- 

llt  liliri;^'  her 

peril. ipM     I 

I'll    try  ami 

Call   Luiiii), 

tuiiiu  ;  ami  I 

IHy  mill  sail- 
iiL'il  over  tho 

I,"  hIh!  saiil, 
1111(1    Miiillinij 

is  Al)i;l,  my 
1  yoii  of  no 
iir  tlu!  I'hild 
iiiorc  to  nuk, 

try  to  kei'p 

KliausU'il  hIio 
J  rust,  kisjiuil 
prumiMii);r  to 
liu  iullowiii;^ 
iibseiiue  from 
Huttlu  tlmt 
vinit  a  lady 
lililhooil,  and 
ty  was  satis- 
liilil  without 
»tions    wliich 

otta^c  I'lace, 
)v;  and  to  Ills 
id  that  Mrs. 
1  rusted  wull 
tiuntly  to  see 

3l,  bcl'ore  ho 
i,  "this' poor 
lOt  to  disturb 
gentle,  and  go 


.'.-ynj....,.....j.,nyi!,aj!.'ii.i'S'-^ 


"  Yfs.  papa  :    I'll  bu  vewy  nood,"  npliud 
Pi't  nirckiy. 

Then   hi!   wont  in,    lioldin;:  hi-r    liy  the 
band.   VIoU'l's  larni',  bright  I'jcs  wiTi-  lixcd 

on  ihe  liiior;  and  ll mment  ilio  i<aw  tin- 

fhild,  dhc  utlcred  a  biilo  cry  of  ji>y,  and 
held  out  her  arms.  Abfl  led  IVt  riirwanl ; 
her  mother  chmped  her,  and  drew  her  close 
to  her  heart;  then  there  was  a  moment's 
nilenee,  liroken  only  by  stilled  snlis.  Alter 
the  first  violent  burst  of  emotion  was  some- 
what calmed,  she  held  theUttle  ^irl  at  arms' 
len;{lh,  and  h)oked  at  her  limdly  ami 
proudly,  with  threat  tears  brimmiie^  over 
lier  eyes,  and  trieklin;;  ilown  her  i>ale 
cheeks. 

"  She's  like  him,"  she  said  at  len;;tli ;  "  ohe 
has  his  brow  and  mouth,  and  my  eyes. 
Haven't  you  noticed  it,  AbelT' 

'•  I've  always  tlmuuht  her  like  you,  Vio 
let :  her  eyes  have  always  rcmlndiMl  me  nt 
yours;  but  I  don't  see  his  looks,  and  1 
don't  want  to." 

"  I'm  <^\.i<\  she's  like  me,  Abel.  He'll  nev- 
er  for^^et  me  while  he  has  her  lieliire  him." 
The  poor  fellow  had  a  spasm  of  j)aln  at 
these  thoiiiihlless  words,  but  ho  said  noth- 
ing :  he  would  not  cloud  that  moment  ol 
happiness  with  his  own  sorrow. 

"  Put  her  on  the  bed  by  me,  so  that  I 
can  hold  her  close,  and  give  her  some 
grapes,     lit  you  like  grapes,  darlin;.;  'I  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,  thank  you,"  replied  Pet 
sweetly. 

Then  Abel  went  away  for  a  little  while, 
and  lell  the  mother  alone  with  her  child, 
for  her  first  interview,  and  her  last  sad 
farewell.  He  went  out  into  the  street.  The 
morning  sun  shone  brightly,  dozens  oi" 
liappy  mothers  passed  him  with  their  chil- 
dren Then  his  heart  was  filled  willi  bit- 
terness. She,  still  so  young  and  beautiful, 
lay  there  dying,  holding  in  her  arms,  for 
the  lir>t  and  last  time,  the  child  she  had 
alwndoned  years  before.  How  her  sad 
fate  had  overshadowed  and  crushed  him  ! 
What  a  grievous  destiny  had  led  hiin 
years  before  to  the  weeping  child,  ])laying 
her  first  game  of  deception.  How  that  early 
inlluence  had  blighted  her  whole  liiij,  and 


ruined  what  ml^hl  have  been  a  lieautiful 
character  I  lie  had  already  sullired  much, 
liut    still    he    felt    that    the    wor^t    wis    to 

, ic.     Through   his  love  for  her  child,  ho 

had   yet   to   drain   the   dregs  nf  the   bitter 

cup. 

When  he  entered,  alb'r  a  half-hour's 
absence,  he  liiund  Violet  weeping  loiuul- 
^ively  with  her  face  buried  in  the  pillow; 
while  the  child's  little  hands  caressed  her 
head  lovingly,  and  smoothed  the  long,  soil 
hair  that  clung  round  her  neek. 

"'n»o  lady  cries,  papa;  an'  I've  been 
weal  iU)od.  I've  kissed  her,  an*  told  her  all 
my  'ittle  stories,  and  said  I'd  be  a  dood  dill 
al'ays,  an'  love  her,  an'  —  an"  she  won't  stop 
at  all,"  said  I'et  pitifully,  with  a  little  sad, 
puzzled  face. 

"  ()  Abel  I  take  her  away,  fake  her  away  I 
I  can't  bear  it!"  cried  Violet,  litliug  her 
tear-stained  face,  "  I  can't  bear  it !  She's 
so  good  and  sweet,  that  it  bre;iks  my  he.irt 
to  listen  to  her  innocent  prattle:  every 
word  she  says  stabs  me  like  a  knll'e.  Tako 
her  away,  or  I  sha'n't  have  coin-age  to  die. 
Let  me  kiss  her  oiifU   more,  and  then  tako 

her." 

Abiil   turned   away  his  he.ad,  while   the 
poor  mother  took  her  last  farewell  of  tho 
little  unconscious  thing.     Then,  when  ho 
heard  a  sharp  cry  of  anguish,  and  a  liitlo 
frightened  sob  from  Pet,  he  knew  the  bit- 
terness of  death  was  over ;  and,  tmnini:,  he 
took  the  child  from  the  relaxing  clasp  of 
the   mother,   and  hurried   from   the  room. 
Mrs.  Lamb  went  to  her,  when   Aiiel  came 
down  with  the  little  girl,  and  found  her  in 
a  deathlike  swoon,  from  which  she  did  not 
recover  for   hours.      "  It   was  the  keenest 
sulFering  I  ever  felt,"  she  said  to  her  laith- 
ful  servant,  who  was  crying  near  her  pillow. 
'•  Every   word    the    sweet    innocent    spoko 
was  a  terrible  reproach  to  me.     I've  never 
had  a  harder  punishment,  than  to  hold  her 
in  my  arms,  and  teel  that  I  was  as  far  re- 
moved from  her  as  earth  is  from  heaven.     If 
I'd    lived,  Lamb,  she   couldn't   have    ever 
been  any  thing  to  me.     There  an;    stains 
that  can't  be  wiped  out.     There's   no  place 
on  earth  for  such  as  we :  we  need  to  bo 


..A-.--      '    ,j«m'JHJ»,M'#B',l..--g>^8aB3g^ 


ill 


r 


lit 


i*! 


I 


62 


BOPES  OF  SAND. 


clcanswl  hy  death, beforo  we're  fit  to  touch  ^ insciiplion,    " To   the   memory  of  a  good 

man."  There  is  nothing  to  marii  the  spot 
where  she  sleeps,  but  a  mound  tliickiy  cov- 
ered with  tui'ts  of  fragrant,  deep-bhie  vio- 


the  pure." 

AVhen  Abel  had  taken  Pet  home,  he  re- 
turned again  to  the  bedside  of  Violet,  to 
remain  with  her  what  little  lime  she  lived,  lets. 
All  through  the  afternoon  and  evening,  he 
Bat  near  her,  holding  her  hand  in  his,  silent 
and  sorrowful,  watching  her  beloved  face, 
while  she  slept  peacefully.  Onec  she 
awoke,  and  spoke  of  Robert  Thorpe,  as 
though  she  had  dreanird  of  him  ;  and  then, 
seeing  Abel  by  her  bed,  with  his  sad  eyes 
fixed  on  her,  she  clasped  his  hands,  and 
said  entreatingly,  "  You'll  Ibrgive  him,  dear, 
you'll  forgive  him,  even  as  God  will  forgive 
you ;  and,  if  he  wants  his  child,  you'll  let 
him  have  her.  Promise  me,  Abel,  that 
you'll  let  him  have  her." 

"  I  promise  you,"  he  said  in  a  scarce  au- 
dible voice :  "  he  shall  have  her, even  though 
it  breaks  my  heart."  A  faint  glimmer  of  a 
Buale  stole  over  her  face,  as  slu;  sank  again 
huo  a  peaceful  sleep.  About  midnight, 
Abel  ielt  that  lie  could  not  endure  a  longer 
vigil ;  so,  telling  Mrs.  Lamb  that  he  would 
return  again  early  in  the  morning,  he 
stooped  over  her,  and,  brushing  back  the 
thick  curling  hair  from  her  transparent 
temples,  he  kissed  her  again  and  again 
with  a  despairing  tenderness.  She  half 
opened  her  eyes,  smiled,  and  murmured 
"  Robert,"  then  closed  them  again,  and  sank 
into  a  heavy  sleep. 

"  Her  last  thought  will  be  for  him,"  said 
Abel  bitterly,  as  he  went  away,  and  left 
Mrs.  Lamb  watching  her.  When  he  re- 
turned in  the  morning,  the  faithliil  servant 
met  him  at  iLe  door,  with  pale  face  and 
swollen  eyes. 

"  It's  all  over,  sir,"  said  she.  "  Her  sor- 
rows are  ended.  She  never  woke  after 
you  left  her,  but  dropped  off  in  her  sleep 
without  a  sigh  or  a  word." 

Abel  could  hear  no  more;  turning,  he 
rushed  fiom  the  house,  and  wandered  he 
eared  not  whither :  he  could  not  look  upon 
her  dead.  The  next  day  they  buried  her 
in  Kensal  Clreen,  by  the  side  of  poor  Old 
Top,  over  whose  grave  Abel  had  placed  a 
neat  stone,  with  the  simple  but  touching 


CHAPTER  XL 

Abel's  sacrifice. 

Aktku  Violet's  death,  Abel  tried  to  re- 
sume his  duties  as  though  nothing  had  oc-    • 
curred  to  disturb  the  even  stream  of  his  life, 
—  tried  to  renew  liis  hopes  and  plans  for 
Pet's  future,  without  fear  or  anxiety.     But 
it  was  in  vain  ;  things  did  not  seem  as  they 
had  before ;  there  was  no  secin-ity  in  his 
present,  no  confidence  in  las  future.     He 
felt  like  a  man  in  mid-ocean,  upon  a  sink- 
ing ship,  who  knows  not  at  wliat  moment 
the  threatening  waves  may  close  over  him 
forever.     It  was  a  moral  torture  to  him,  to 
feel  that  he  was  resting  his  whole  hajipi- 
ness  on  so  frail  a  ibundation ;  that  he  was 
worshipping  something  that  diil  not  belong 
to  liim,  something  that  he  might  lo-^e  at 
any  moment.     When  the  child  hung  round 
his  neck  with  fond  caresses,  he  felt  a  sort 
of  cuilt  at  appropriating  an  all'ection  which 
was     only    his     through     circumstances. 
Every    kiss,    every    touch     of    her    soft, 
little  hands,  were  stabs,  that  bled  constant- 
ly.    He  loved  her  so  well,  and  felt  that  she 
was  so  necessary  to  his  existence,  shat,  if 
he  should  lose  her,  he  could  not.eii<luie  his 
life ;  and  so  he  looked  upon  himself,  as  a 
kind  of  felo  de  se,  to  encourage  such  an  ex- 
clusivJ^  passion.     "I  must  wean  myself,"  he 
would  say.     "I  must  gradually  unloose  ihe 
cords   that  slie  has  wound  around  mo,  so 
that,  when  the  time  comes,  1  can  give  lier 
up  without  its  killing  me."     Therefore  he 
felt  no  real  enjoyment  in  her  society,  see- 
ing that  every  natural  impulse  was  gijaixled 
under  a  protest  of  self-denial. 

Sometimes  she  would  talk  to  him  grave- 
ly of  the  lady  who  had  kissed  her  and  cried 


/' 


t- 


r  of  a  good 
irk  the  spot 
thickly  cov- 
up-bhie  vio- 


tried  to  re- 
liiiii»  had  Of-  • 
im  of  his  life, 
lul  plans  for 
nxii'ty.  But 
suein  as  tiicy 
ciirity  in  his 

futuru.  Ilii 
upon  a  sink- 
fhat  moment 
ose  over  him 
ire  to  him,  to 
whole  happi- 

that  he  was 
id  not  belong 
iii<!;ht  lose  at 
1  hung  round 
le  felt  a  sort 
flection  which 
ircumstances. 
of  her  soft, 
jled  constant- 
1  felt  that  she 
itence,  that,  if 
iotien<luie  his 

himself,  as  a 
;e  meh  an  ex- 
tn  niyselti"  he 
ly  unloose  iho 
round  mo,  so 
can  i.dve  her 
Therefore  he 
r  society,  see- 
13  was  gijai-ded 

to  him  grave- 
1  her  and  cried 


ABEL'S  SACRIFICE. 


63 


over  her;  and  say  she  was  pretty  and  kind, 
an.l  be-r  to  be  taken  to  her  ajjam.  1  k'.. 
Abel  told  her  that  she  was  dead,  and  that 
Bhe  could  no  to  her  no  more.  ^_ 

"What   is  it  to   be  dead,  papa  ^     she 
asked  with  a  puzzled,  serious  iiice. 

»  To  be  at  rest  when  one  is  tired,  and  to 
have  no  more  fear." 

»  Oh,  no  1    It's  to  RO  away  for  ever  anU 
ever.    Mrs.  Battle  says  so." 

"  Yes,  that  is  one  kind  of  death,"  he  re- 
turned musingly. 

"  Will  you  ever  be  dead,  papa  f      >  i" 
vou  ever  go  away,  and  leave  Pet  ?  " 

"God  only  knows,  dear."     Thsn  he  pu 
the  child  ii-om  oir  his  knee,  strugghng  '---.rd 
to  keep  back  the  tears. 

She  saw  his  trouble  in  his  eyes ;  and,  taK- 
his  face  between  her  little  hands,  she  said, 
"What  makes  you  cry,  papa?  Is  it  be- 
cause the  lady's  dead  V  " 

"  No,  no,  darling  :  it's  not  that,  he  re- 
plied, as  if  thinking  aloud.  "I'm  thank  ul 
that  she's  dead  ;  for  now  I  know  where  she 
is  I  searched  for  her  years  and  years. 
At  last  I've  found  her,  and  I  never  can  lose 
her  again.  But  go  away.  Pet;  run  to  Mrs 
Battle,  I've  something  to  do." 

After  she  had  gone,  he  went  to  his  bed 
room  and  wept  freely,  feeling  that  his 
heart  would  break  if  he  did  not  find  some 
relief  in  tears.  The  time  had  not  yet  come 
when  he  could  not  weep,  but  it  was  draw- 
in"-  nearer  than  ho  thought. 

One  afternoon  Abel  came  home  earlier 
than  usual,  and  found  that  Mrs.  Battle  had 
taken  Pet  to  the  park.  Shortly  after,  the 
good  woman  came  in  greatly  excited,  her 
face  extremely  red,  and  her  breath  coming 
in  short  gasps.  "  Such  a  strange  thing  has 
,  happened,  Mr.  Winter!"  she  exclaimed, 
dropping  into  a  chair,  and  fannmg  herseli 
vigorously.  "  Such  a  strange  thing,  —  m  a,  i 
my  life  I  never  met  a  more  curiouser." 

"  What  was  it  V  "  hiquired  Abel,  with  a 
Bud.len  fluttering  at  his  heart. 

"  Why,  I  was  a  settin'  on  a  bench  with 
my  work,  an'  Pet  was  a  play  in'  round,  when 
all  of  a  suddent  a  gentleman  comes  up  to 
her,  an'  begins  to  talk  to  her.    1  kind  o 


kep'  my  eye  on  him,  though  he  .lidn't  look 
like  one  o'  then  men  as  steals    .■hildren. 
Well,  he  talked  to  her,  an'  the  stui.wl  httle 
cretur'   seeme.l  mighty  pleased    with     us 
chat.   By  aiul  by  he  took  some  sugar-barley 
out  o'  his    i.ocket,  an'  otVered    .t    to    her 
a-sndlin'  like  a  angel,  which  she   took,  the 
.rvcedy  little  mite  !  an'  swallowed  all  -lown 
r„  a  wink.     Then  he  held  out  his  han.l. 
and  she  put  hers  in  it,  jest  like  a  bird  as  is 
charmed   by   a  sariient,   an'    was   actally 
■roiii'  off  with  him.     I  supiiose   he  ili.ln  t 
nrink  1  was  a  watchin'  him,  'caasc   I  was 
behind  a  tr.-  with  my  head  b.nt  as  if    1 
was  busy  with  my  work.     Well,  I  jest  let 
him  -et  oir  a  little  way,  like  a  cat  does  a 
mousx.,  all  the  while  ready  to  clap  my  paw 
on  him  when  I  see  what  he  intended  to  do 
Tlien  I  started,  an',  afore  he  knew  it,  1 
was  there,  an'  had  the  child  by  the  han.l 
ready  to  carry  her  off.     An' I  did  want  to 
shake  her  awful,  for  the  first  time  since  I 
have  had  her  in  my  care.     He  looked  at 
me  as  though  he  would   eat  me  with  his 
eyes,  bones  an'   all,  an'    asked  me  what  I 
wanted.     Says  I,  as  proud  as  the  fiueen,^^  1 
want  my  child,  if  it  pleases  your  honor.     . 
"  What  reply  did  he  make  '\  "  (luestioned 
Abel  with  trembling  anxiety. 

"  Why,  he  turned   as  white  as  a  stone, 
an'  says",  aiigrv-Uke,  '  She's  not  your  chiUl ; 
an'  you've  no" right  to  her.'  -  '  Sb;'s  mine, 
sir,  I  told  him,  '  while  I've  the  care  of  her. 
Mr.  Abel  Winter  put  the  little  girl  m  my 
char-e,  an'  you've  no  right  to  me.idle  with 
her.'"  Then  he  come  close  up  to  me,  an 
said,  low  and  confidential-like, '  See  here, 
,„y  <,ood  woman,  the  child  belongs  to  me: 
Iw^nther;   an'  if  you'll  let  me 'ave    er 
peaceable,   PU   give   you    somethin     and- 
soine'     OLord!     Mr.  Winter,  you  ought 
to  have  seen  how  mad  I  was  1     Tl.evilla.nl 
to  try  an' buy  me  that  way!    But  I  didn  t 
ka    him    know  i.  :    so    I    s.ays,  cool-hk.^ 
<  Thai's  all  very  well ;  but  what  can  1  tell 
Mr.  Winter  when  I  uo  home  without  the 
child V— -Oh,  that's  easy  enough  to  ar- 
n-n-e:    you   can  invent   something.     Say 
you' lost  her,  or  she  was  stolen.'  -  '  Hiank 
you'  I  says,  sort  of  sarcastic, '  thank  you, 


•I 


raiHiaB>;^»jWte'Jgi»Bi»S»^«»*^ 


C4 


ROPES  OF  SAND. 


sir.  You're  a  vory  'oncst  mmi,  an'  I  like 
your  manners  niiicli  lor  a  cliilil-sU-aler ;  but 
you've  fxot  to  liml  a  (latter  party  'an  me  to 
"swallow  your  nonsense.  You  l(X)k  like  a 
fTcntlenian,  that's  true  ;  but  you're  not;  an' 
it'  you're  Pet's  father  I'm  sorry  for  her. 
Still,  1  <lon't  believe  it.  You're  more  like 
one  o'  them  eircus  fellows  as  wants  to  >;et 
Vr  to  ihiiKe  the  tij^ht  rope.'  Then  he 
turned  awful  mad,  an'  white,  an*  looked 
round  as  if  he  didn't  know  what  to  do,  like 
as  if  he  wished  he  had  win^s,  an' could  take 
the  child  an'  lly  ott"  with  'er.  An',  would 
you  believe  it,  tlie  little  meek  mite  was  a 
boldin'  his  haml  fast,  as  if  she'd. like  to  go 
too." 

Abel  sighed,  and   looked   at   the  child 
reproaehfnlly. 

"  Well,  1  didn't  know  just  what  to  do, 
till  1  see  a  i>'licemiin  in  the  BirdcaRe  Walk  : 
then  I  says,  as  bold  as  eoultl  be, '  Now,  sir, 
you  may  be  the  child's  father  or  not,  I'm 
sure  I  tion't  know,  as  that  isn't  easy  to  tell ; 
but,  if  you  are,  you've  got  to  prove  it  to 
Mr.  Wi'nter,  an'  get  'er  in  a  'onest  way. 
You  can't  buy  her  or  steal  'er  from  me; 
an',  if  you  don't  let  'er  go  'ome  peaceable, 
I'll  call  that  holHeer  yonder,  an'  tell  'im  the 
whole  story.'  With  that  he  jest  wilted-like 
an'  settled  down  onto  a  bench,  an'  dragged 
the  child  up  to  'im  an'  hugged  'er  like  a 
bear,  a  sayin'  sometbin'  low,  as  I  didn't 
hear  only  the  last  words;  an'  them  was. 
She's  nunc,  an'  I'll  'ave  'er.'     I  did  pity 


liim,  Mr.  Winter,  spite  o'  all;  an'  if  he  was 

not  a  thief  he  was  a  hactor,  'cause  no  one 

but  a  hactor  could  work  their  face  an'  leign 

to  feel  bad  as  he  did;  an'  he  was  'andsonie 

too,   an'    '.veil    .Iressed    for    that    matter, 

though  a  bit  thin  an'  p.de,  an'  sad-lookin'. 

At  last,  I  felt  as  though  my  own  feelin's 

w;is  a  givin*  way,  an'  my  heart  a  ri^in'  u[) 

in  my  throat,  so  I  just  took  the  child  and 

says,  '  Come,  Pet.  come    home    and    see 

papa.'     Then  he  lla>h.^d  up  like  a  ilame. 

an'  says  he,  '  By  God  1  he's  not  her  father. 

An'  I'll  prove  it,  an'  have  her.     Tell  him 

so  if  you  like.     Abel  Winter  'as  no  right  to 

the  child.'     Then  he  kisseil  Pet  over  and 

over,  an'  says, '  Will  you  go  with  me,  dar- 


lin'  ?  •  An'  the  wicked,  ongrateful  little  cre- 
tur',  she  sort  o'  clung  to  bis  hand,  an' 
looked  at  him  as  though  she  didn't  know. 
So  I  just  led  her  otV  and  brought  her  'ome  ; 
though  I  do  verily  believe  she'd  a'  gone 
with  'im  in  a  minute." 

"Woulil  you  have,  PetV"  said  Abel, 
taking  her  on  his  knee  with  a  sinking 
heart,  "  would  you  have  gone  with  the 
strange    gentleman,    and   left    your    poor 

papa"?  " 

"  He  did  give  me  nice  barley-sugar,  an' 
said,  if  I'd  go  with  him,  he'd  buy  me  a 
great  doll  with  eyes  to  open  and  shut,  an' 
pink  shoes,  an'  —  an'  —  lots  o'  things." 

"  Oh,  you  wicked  little  girl  1 "  cried  Mrs. 
Battle  indignantly,  "  to  leave  your  good 
jiapa  for  barley-sugar,  an'  pink  shoes,  an'  a 
stranger  that  p'rhaps  'd  break  your  back, 
and  make  you  stand  on  the  tips  o'  your 
toes  all  day  long." 

'•Don't  scold  her,  Mrs.  Battle,"  said 
Abel  calmly.  "  The  child's  not  to  blame. 
Her  little  heart  recognized  the  author  of 
her  being;  for  without  doubt  it  was  her 
father.  I've  lately  learned  who  he  is :  he 
knows  that  I  have  his  child,  and  he'll  likel- 
claim  her." 

"  O  love  alive  I "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Battle 
in  real  terror.  "You  can't  mean  it,  Mr. 
Winter  1  he'll  claim  her,  an'  you'll  give  her 
up,  an'  we'll  lose  Pet?  Why,  that  can't 
be.  AVe  can't  live  without  her,  me  an'  my 
man,  let  alone  you." 

"  It's  hard,  I  know,  Mrs.  Battle.  I  don't 
see  how  we  can  bear  it.  It  seems  to  mo 
as  if  I  hadn't  strength  to  go  through  with 
it ;  but,  if  it  comes,  I  suppose  I  must,"  said 
Abel  with  sad  resignation.  "  He's  her  fa- 
ther ;  and  he  alone  has  a  right  to  her." 

"  Do  tell  me,  Mr.  Winter,  how  did  you 
finil  it  out?  an'  is  he  a  hactor,  or  a  gentle- 
man ?  " 

"  It's  too  long  a  story  to  tell  you,  how  I 
discovered  it ;  and,  besides,  there  are  other 
reasons  why  I  can't  explain  it  to  you  :  but 
I'm  convinced  that  this  person  js  her 
father;  and  he's  no  actor,  Mrs.  Battle. 
We  won't  talk  about  it  any  more,  only 
you're  not  to  take  Pet  to  the  park  again : 


--'1 


ABEL'S  SACEIFICB. 


65 


fill  little  cre- 
is  hand,  an' 
lidn't  know. 
;ht  her  'ome  ; 
lie'J  «■  gone 

'  said  Abel, 
h  a  sinking 
inc  with  the 
t    your    poor 

ley-sugar,  an' 
'd  buy  ine  a 
;ind  shut,  an' 
'  things." 
1 "  criL'd  Mrs. 
ve  your  good 
k  shoes,  an'  a 
k  your  back, 
>  tips  o'  your 

Battle,"  said 
not  to  blame, 
the  author  of 
bt  it  was  her 
who  he  is :  he 
,nd  he'll  like)/ 

a  Mrs.  Battle 
mean  it,  Mr. 
you'll  give  her 
hy,  that  can't 
ler,  me  an'  my 

Battle.  I  don't 
t  seems  to  mo 
I  through  with 
e  I  must,"  said 

"  He's  her  fa- 
ht  to  her." 
,  how  did  you 
or,  or  a  gentle- 
tell  you,  how  I 
there  are  other 

it  to  you  :  but 
person  is  her 
r,  Mrs.  Battle, 
vny  more,  only 
te  park  again: 


he  mustn't  have  a  chance  to  get  her  in  that 
way.  If  ho  wants  her  he  must  come  to  me 
like  a  gentleman,  and  say  so.  Now  bring 
us  our  suppers ;  for  the  poor  little  thing 
must  be  hungry  and  tired." 

After  Pet  had  eaten  heartily,  •while  Abel 
watched  her,  scarce  tasting  a  mouthful,  he 
un(lresscd  her,  as  ho  often  did,  and  then 
li'Hcn'Ml  to  her  prayers,  while   she  knelt 
b-fon    him  with  sweet,  demure  face,  and 
clasped  hands.     Then  he  took  her  in  his 
arms  ;  and,  pressing  her  close  to  his  heart, 
be  leaned  his  cheek  against  her  curls,  and 
fell  into  a  deep  reverie.     The  weight  of  his 
destiny    crushed  him  I    His  past  sorrows 
and  disappointments  sank  into  nothingness 
compared  with  this  present  trial ;  but  with 
it  all  he  felt  a  strange  calm  and  resigna- 
tion, -»-  a  consciousness  that  the  worst  had 
come,  and  that  nothing    more  could  be 
added    to    his    already    brimming    cup. 
There  was  no  vindictive   passion,  no  re- 
venge, no  hate  in  his  heart  against  Robert 
Thorpe :   ho  was   the  faher  of  the  child 
he    held    in    his  arms,  — the    child    he 
loved  with  a  mother's  tenderness.    Noth- 
ing could  exceed  the  charity,  pity,  and 
kindness  that  filled  his  heart.    Pet  slept 
on  his  breast,  her  warm,  soft  cheek  pressed 
to  his,  her  sweet  breath  floating  over  his 
face,  her  smooth,  silken  hair  clinging  to  his 
hands.     He  looked  at  her  closely,  so  that 
every  feature  might  be  prinfed  upon  his 
memory    in  tints  that    never  could     be 
dimmed   only  by    the  effacing  finger    of 
death.  She  would  spring  up  a  slender,  love- 
ly maiden.  Under  other  fond  eyes,  the  flower 
of  her  beauty  would   unfold.     She  would 
grow  from  grace  to  grace,  and  he  would 
not  be  there  to  see  her.     To  him  she  would 
be  only  Pet,  little,  golden-haired  Pet.    He 
would  lose  her  soon,  lose  her  as  he  had 
lost  her  mother,  and  never  find  her  again, 
save    in    his    memory.      Then    his    lips 
parted  close  to  her  ear,   and  he   talked 
softly,  as  though  she  could  hear  him;   as 
though  the  voice  of  his  love  could  pp;  ^- 
tratc''the  dull    car  of  sleep.      "Darling, 
I've    done    the    best   I    could    for   you. 
Pve  tried  to  make  you  happy ;  I've  tried 


to   make  you   good.     If   misfortune   and 
sorrow   come   to  you  in   the   future,  God 
knows  it  will  not  bo  my  fault.     If  ho  had 
left  you  to  me,  I  would  have  guarded  you 
day  and  night.    I  woulil  have    watched 
over  you  as  a  miser  does  his  gold.    I  would 
have  given   the  last  drop  of  my  heart's 
blood  for  you ;  but  now  he  will  take  you, 
and  I  can  do  nothing  more,  only  to  give  you 
into  the  hands  of  God.    It's  not  my  fault, 
little  one.     I  would   rather  have   parted 
with  every  limb  of  my  body  than  to  part 
with  you.    I  don't  give  you  up  without 
giving  the  greater  half  of  my  life.     What 
can  I  do  ?     There's  no  compromise  that  I 
can  make  between  love    and  duty.    I'm 
spared  temptation  in  the  matter.  He  knows 
all :  he  will  come  and  demand  you ;   and  I 
must  yield   you  up,  far  more   reluctantly 
than  i  would  my  life.     Yes,  fiir  more  :  be- 
cause life  is  nothing,  — at  thirty  years  I've 
finished  it.     I've  no  more  to  hope,  to  de- 
sire, to  expect :  beyond  you  there  is  only  a 
blank.    I  commenced  life  full  of  unshaken 
faith  in  the  future.  I  believed  in  friendship, 
in  love ;  and  I  was  deceived  in  both.    Why 
did  they  not  tell  me  that  all   was  false,* 
that  only  the  hereafter  was  true  ?     Why 
did  they  leave  me  to  buy  my  experience 
at  such  a  price  ?  I've  searched  into  the  mys- 
tery of  sorrow,  and  fcund  in  it  nothing  but 
grievous    chastening.    I've  asked  why  it 
has  come  so  thick  and  fast  upon  me,  and 
the  only  answer  I  receive  is  that  God  has 
willed  it;   therefore  I  must  be  resigned. 
But  you,  darling,  how  will  it  bo  with  you  ? 
What  fate  awaits  you,  my  precious  one  ? 
O  my  angel  I  who  will  love  you  as  I  have  ? 
who  will  count  thee  more  precious  than 
life  or  happiness  ?  "    Then  he  carried  her 
gently,   and,  laying    her  in   her    bed,  he 
smoothed  her  pillows,  and  pressed  his  lips 
to  her  flushed  cheeks  with  mournful  ten- 
derness.    After  that  he  went  back  to  his 
chair    before     the   fire;   and   instead    of 
taking  a  book,  as  had  been  his  habit,  his 
head  sank  dejectedly  upon  his  breast,  and 
he  fell  into  a  profound  reverie.  Suddenly  a 
knock  at  his  door,  and  steps  mounting  the 
stairs,  startled  him. 


66 


BOPES  OF  SAND. 


\ 


"  A  gentleman  to  sec  Mr.  Winter,"  said 
Mrs.  Battle's  little  maid,  "  an'  lie's  followed 
me  up.     Shall  I  let  him  in  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Ahcl  rising,  and 
trembling  so  that  he  could  scarce  speak, 
irhile  he  turned  away  his  head  to  hide  the 
anguish  in  his  face.  When  he  heard  the 
door  close  he  looked  up,  and  Robert  Thorpe 
stood  before  him,  serious,  sad,  and  almost 
humble.  Abel  bowed  mechanically,  and 
pointed  to  a  chair;  for  his  lips  refused  to 
utter  a  word.  His  visitor  sank  into  the 
proiTered  seat,  put  his  hat  upoa  the  table, 
and,  drawing  his  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket,  he  wiped  the  beaded  drops  from  his 
face  with  a  nervous  hand ;  and  yet  neither 
spoke. 

Abel  was  the  first  to  break  the  painful  si- 
lence :  he  had  conquered  his  emotion,  and 
regained  his  calmness  in  the  face  of  this  ter- 
rible trial,  which  he  knew  reiiuired  all  his 
courage  to  go  throu;.;h  with  unfalteringly. 
One  thought  was  uppermost  in  his  heart : 
there  could  be  but  one  object  in  this  visit ; 
and  so  he  said,  addressing  Robert  Thorpe 
with  quiet  dignity,  "  You've  come  to  take 
your  child.     Am  I  not  right  ?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Winter :  I've  not  come  to  take 
her ;  I've  come  to  ask  for  her." 

"  And  you  expect  me  to  give  her  up  ? 
Remember,  her  mother  put  her  into  my 
arms  when  she  was  but  a  few  weeks  old  ; 
and  I've  loved  her  ever  since.  She's  as 
dear  to  me  as  my  life.  Think  what  you 
ask,  Mr.  Thorpe,  and  be  merciful." 

"  Don't  speak  of  mercy,  for  God's  sake, 
don't  I  If  you  could  know  what  was  pasr- 
ing  in  my  heart  at  this  moment,  you  would 
see  that  I  was  the  one  to  be  pitied,  not 
you,"  cried  Robert  Tliorpe,  still  wiping  the 
great  drops  from  his  face,  with  a  hand  t)iat 
trembled  in  spite  of  every  effort  at  self- 
control. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  Violet,"  said  Abel 
with  painful  calm.  "  We  will  not  speak  of 
that.  I  saw  her  before  she  died ;  I  forgave 
her ;  I've  nothing  more  to  say." 

"  Would  to  God  that  I  could  have  seen 
her  also  t  "  exclaimed  Robert  with  a  burst 
of  emotion.    "  I  loved  her :  I'm  not  ashamed 


to  say  it.  I  loved  her  dearly,  but  I  lost 
confidence  in  her." 

"  I  know  it  all,"  interrupted  Abel. 

"  Since  she  has  written  to  luu  with  her 
dying  hand,  I  believe  her  to  be  innocent. 
The  child  is  mine  :  she  is  her  living  image. 
After  I  received  her  letter,  I  tried  to  find 
her.  I  longed  to  throw  myself  at  her  feet, 
and  implore  her  pardon  before  she  died ; 
but  1  sought  in  vain,  until  yesterday,  when 
I  accidentally  met  Lamb,  her  old  servant ; 
and  she  told  me  all,  — how  you  brought  the 
child,  and  how  contented  and  peaceful  you 
made  her  last  moments." 

"  Say  no  more  of  it,  Mr.  Thorpe.  You  must 
know  how  I  have  suflered.  Spare  me  the 
pain  of  referring  to  her.  It  is  the  child  that 
occupies  all  my  thoughts  now  :  let  us  settle 
that  matter.  You  want  her,  and  you  are 
determined  to  have  her  :  am  I  right  ?  " 

"  I  want  her,  and  I  am  determined  to 
have  her,"  returned  Robert  with  some  of 
his  old  authority. 

"  Are  you  aware  that  you  cannot  claim 
the  child  legally,  unless  you  legitimize  her  ? 
that  yoi<  cannot  compel  me  to  give  her  up, 
unless  i  choose  to  relinquish  her  ?  " 

"  I  trust  to  your  honor  in  the  matter," 
said  Robert,  dropping  his  eyes  beneath  the 
steady  gaze  of  Abel.  "You  surely  will 
not  keep  the  child  from  her  father." 

"  No,  I'll  not ;  but  first  you  must  do  me 
justice;  you  must  make  a  sacrifice  for  me. 
You  must  acknowledge  that  you  believe  me 
innocent  of  the  crime  you  accused  me  of 
five  years  ago." 

Robert  changed  color,  and  turned  his 
head,  trying  to  evade  Abel's  searching  eyes. 

"  You  know,  as  God  is  our  witness,  that  I 
never  removed  the  money  from  the  safe. 
You  knew  it  at  the  time,  Mr.  Thorpe,  and 
yet  you  let  me  suffer.  Now  is  your  time  to 
right  me." 

It  was  evident  from  the  convulsive  work- 
ing of  Robert's)  face,  that  a  terrible  struggle 
was  going  on  in  his  heart.  Pride  and  re- 
morse,  good  and  evil,  were  in  arms  together ; 
and  the  moment  was  agonizing.'  At  last 
he  started  up,  and  exclaimed,  as  though  the 
words  were  forced  from  him  ajjoinst  his 


ABEL'S  SACRIFICE. 


67 


r,  but   I  lost 

Abel. 

uu  with  hor 
innoocnt. 
iviiig  image, 
tried  to  fmil 
at  her  feet., 
re  she  died ; 
iterday,  when 
old  servant ; 
lU  brought  the 
peaceful  you 

pc.  You  must 
S|)aro  me  the 
>  the  child  that 
:  let  us  settle 
and  you  are 
I  right  ?  " 
leterrained  to 
with  some  of 

II  cannot  claim 
legitimize  her  ? 
;o  give  her  up, 
her?" 

the  matter," 
fes  beneath  the 
'ou  surely  will 
father." 

ou  must  do  me 
lacrifice  for  me. 
;  you  believe  me 
accused  me  of 

and  turned  hia 
s  searching  eyes. 
ir  witness,  that  I 
from  the  safe. 
VIr.  Thorpe,  and 
r  is  your  time  to 

convulsive  work- 
,  terrible  struggle 
Pride  and  re- 
in arms  together ; 
mizing.'  At  last 
ed,  as  though  the 
him  against  his 


will  by  an  interior  power:  "  By  Heavens! 
Winter,  you  are  ri;^iit :  I  know  you  never 
took  the  money.  It  wn:t  not  there  for  i/nu  to 
take;  and  I  was  a  cursed  villain  to  aci-use 
you.  You  know  what  such  a  confession 
costs  me,  but  I'll  do  it.  ril  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it.  I  wanted  to  get  rid  of  you. 
Not  that  F  had  any  thing  against  you  per- 
sonally. No  :  I  always  likeil  you,  and  you 
were  very  useful  to  me  ;  but  at  that  time  I 
was  in  dreadful  complications,  and  did  not 
dare  .acknowledge  it  to  my  father.  I 
thought  if  I  only  had  time,  that  I  mi'j;iit 
work  out  of  them,  and  lie  know  nothing 
about  it.  The  slightest  suspicion  on  his 
part  would  hnve  ruined  me  ;  and  I  feared 
that  you  would  discover  somethinj;,  and  ex- 
pose me.  It  was  al>out  the  time  1 1  |uarrelled 
with  Violet ;  and  she  threatened  to  disclose 
all  to  you.  I  knew  if  she  did,  that  you 
would  malre  my  father  acquainted  with  my 
wickedness ;  and  I  fe.ired  the  consequences 
of  his  anger.  Besides,  j-our  knowledge  of 
our  private  affairs  enabled  you  to  discover 
how  badly  I  was  managing  in  my  father's 
absence.  I  knew  you  suspected  mu  after  the 
Jew's  visit;  and  I  thought  that  you  would 
act  the  part  of  a  spy,  and  denounce  me  to  my 
father.  I  had  tried  for  some  time  to  think 
of  a  plan  to  get  you  discharged  ;  when  sud- 
denly the  Uevil  put  that  into  my  head,  and  I 
acted  upon  it  at  once.  It  is  true  that  I  put 
the  money  in  the  envelope  before  your  eyes ; 
but,  instead  of  placing  it  in  the  safe  when  1 
stooped  to  do  so,  I  slipped  it  into  my  pock- 
et. I  knew  the  man  would  not  come  until 
the  next  day,  as  I  had  told  him  to  call  then. 
You  sec,  I  was  safe  from  being  suspected ; 
but  I  sulFered  tortures.  Don't  think  I  did 
it  coolly,  and  without  pity  for  you."  Abel 
made  a  gesture  of  ineffable  contempt. 
"  The  consequences  might  have  been  worse 
than  they  were.  Your  immoderate  temper 
almost  forced  my  father  to  resort  to  harsh 
means,  although  I  believe  he  never  really 
thought  you  guilty." 

"  Now  you  must  right  me  with  him," 
said  Abel  quietly." 

"  How  can  I,  Winter?  Good  Grod  t  my 
father's  dead  :  he  died  two  weeks  ago." 


Tlien  Abid  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  his 
deep  mourning.  "  1  regret  that  more  than 
any  tiling.  I  should  have  wished  Aim,  of 
all  others,  to  have  been  certain  of  my  inno- 
cence ;  but  now  I  must  wait  until  it  is  de- 
clared before  the  Judge  of  all." 

llobert  Thorpe  regarded  him  with  .aston- 
ishment. He  had  expected  a  l)urst  of 
piussionatc  anger ;  but,  instead,  he  had  re- 
ceived his  avowal  calmly  and  almost 
indifferently.  It  touched  the  not  entirely 
ignoble  heart  of  his  old  enemy  as  nothing 
else  could,  and  forced  from  his  lips  an  <'.\- 
clamation  of  surprise  and  .admiration.  "  By 
Jove,  Winter,  you  take  it  coolly !  You're 
a  dilFerent  man  from  me  ;  for,  although  I'm 
jiretty  well  down  by  misfortune,  I  couldn't 
listen  to  the  confession  of  such  a  wrong 
without  boiling  over." 

"Mr.  Thorpe,"  returned  Abel,  in  a 
solemn,  still  voice,  "  I  had  my  hour  of  pas- 
sion, my  temptation  of  revenge,  long  ago. 
It  passed  over,  and  left  us  both  unharmed. 
Thank  God  for  it,  not  me.  Your  full  for- 
giveness you  owe  to  the  mother  of  your 
child.  I  don't  complain,  nor  accuse  you : 
let  the  dead  p.ost  bury  its  dead." 

Aflcr  a  few  moments  of  deep  silence, 
during  which  Abel  seemed  to  be  plunged 
in  a  profound  reflection,  he  looked  up,  and 
said,  '•  In  regard  to  the  child,  if  you  take 
her,  are  you  able  to  provide  for  her  and 
educate  her  properly  ?  " 

A  flush  of  pride  burnt  for  a  inoin^mt  on 
Robert's  pale  cheek,  as  he  replied, "  Certain- 
ly. If  I  were  not  com|)ctent  to  dj  so, 
I  would  scarce  undertake  the  charge. 
Through  the  influcii'.-e  of  a  friend  of  my 
father,  I  have  a  situation,  ami  a  salary  tl'.at 
will  enable  me  to  live  coujfortably.  i  have 
entirely  changed  my  habits,  Winter.  My 
past  experience  has  taught  me  a  bitter 
lesson.  In  the  future  I  shall  avoid  the  shoals 
that  wrecked  me  before.  *'Ty  plan  is  to  put 
the  little  girl  in  a  good  school ;  and,  when 
she  is  grown  up,  she  will  keep  house  for 
me,  and  be  a  great  comfort  to  me."  Abel 
shivered  from  head  to  foot,  and  clasped  his 
hands  with  a  gesture  of  pain.  "  I  shall  never 
marry,"  continued  liobert  in  a  cold,  philo- 


11 


68 


ROPES  OF  SAND. 


i 


pophkiil  tono.  "  I've  lost  all  confidence  in 
wuiucn.  In  fact,  1  can  never  cnro  for 
anulhcr  as  I  cared  for  lier  "  — 

"The  child  has  never  been  baptized, 
never  rcceive.l  any  name,"  interrupted  Abel 
suddenly.  "  It's  my  wish  that  she  should 
be  called  Violet :  1  hope  you'll  regard  it." 

"I've  thought  of  that,"  rei)lied  K<3bert: 
"  it's  been  my  intention  from  the  first.  It's 
the  only  reparation  I  can  make  the  poor 
thin.;,  to  give  her  name  to  the  child." 

Abel  sprang  up,  anil  paced  the  fioor 
rapidly  ;  then  with  a  heavy  sigh  he  subsi.led 
again  into  his  chair,  and  waited,  with  his 
eyes  fi.\ed  on  vacancy,  ibr  his  visitor  to 
gpcak. 

"  When  may  1  take  her  ?  "  Robert  com- 

nienrcd.  .    ,    .,    , 

"  When  may  yon  take  her  ?  "  cricil  Al)el 
with  Hashing  eyes.     "I've  never  said  yet 
th:it    vou  coulil  take  her.     I've  not  made 
up  nn"  mind."     Then  he  pressed  his  hands 
over  ills  eyes  as  if  striving  for  self-control, 
ami  added  more  cahnly.     "  Give  me  time, 
Mr.   Thorpe;    give   me   one  week.     This 
d,u-  week  you  shall  have  her :    come   for 
her  tlwn,  and    she 'will    be   ready  to    go 
with  you.     1  must  have  a  little  time  :  she's 
wound  herself  so  rouml    my  heart,  that  1 
can't  tear  her  olf  sud.lenly.    You  know,  one 
gets  so  fond  of  a  cliiUl  at  that  age,"  he  ex- 
plained with  a  sickly  smile. 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,  Winter  :  I'm  sorry  for 
you  ;  but,  if  it's  got  to  be,  it's  better  now 
than  later.  It's  better  to  break  this  up 
before  her  tastes  are  formed." 

Abel  replied  not  a  word,  llobcrt  Thorpe 
took  his  hat,  and  turned  towards  the  door 
saying,  "  Very  well,  then  ;  this  night  week 
I'll  come  for  her." 

'•  This  night  week,"  repeated  Abel  vaguely, 
and  added!  with  a  mechanical  motion  of  the 
head,  "  Good-evening.  Mr.  Thorpe,  good- 
evening."  Then  he  sank  back  into  his 
ch:dr,  treinbling  and  exhausted. 

Aller  a  few  moments  he  got  up,  took  a 
cnndle,  and  went  into  Tet's  room.  She  was 
sleeping  sweetly,  one  little  hand  under  her 
check,  the  other  thrown  over  her  head,  and 
tan-'led  fast  in  her  silken  hair.    He  stooped, 


and  pressed  his  lips  gently  to  her  forehead. 
To-night  she  seemed  more   than  ever  like 
her  mother;  and  he  murmured  sotlly  close 
to  her  ear,  '•  Violet,  Violet,"    She  partially 
awoke  and  nestled  to  him.     One  little  hand 
sought  his  face,  and  lay  soil  and  warm  on 
his  cheek,  cold  and  damp  with  the  dews  of 
emotion.    The   touch   went  to  his  heart. 
It  seemed  as  though  her  tender  fmge.  s  had 
opened   the  flood-gates  of  his   soul ;   and, 
bowing  his  head,  he  wept  abundantly,  let- 
ting Ids  hot  tears  fall  over  the  golden  curls 
of  the  child. 

Four  days  after  ho  sent  for  Mrs.  Battlo 
to  come  to  his  room.  It  was  evening  :  Pet ' 
had  gone  to  bed ;  and  he  was  alone,  pacir.g 
the  Hoor  rapidly,  his  cheeks  unnaturally 
flushed,  and  his  eyes  wide  and  bright,  like 
one  sufTering  from  some  terrible  mental 
excitement. 

The  pood  woman  looked  at  him  with 
some  surprise ;  but  he  plunged  at  once  into 
the  object  of  his  summons,  without  giving 
her  time  to  make  her  usual  intiuisitive 
remarks. 

"  Good-evening,  Mrs.  Battle.  I've  sent 
for  you  to  tell  you  that  I'm  going  away." 

"  Good  Lord,  Mr.  Winter !  Going  away  ! 
an'  without  givin'  me  a  month's  notice  1  " 
she  cried  indignantly,  her  own  interest  be- 
ing uppermost  in  her  mind. 

"  Yes :  I'm  obliged  to  go  at  once,  day 
after  to-morrow  ;  but  I'll  pay  you  the  month's 
rent  all  the  same,  and  you  can  find  another 
lodger  in  the  mean  time." 

Satisfied  pecuniarily,  Mrs.  Battle  began 
to  quiver  with  curiosity  to  know  all  about 
it.  "  Going  away,  Mr.  Winter  'i  Why,  it's 
so  sudden-like  that  I  can't  realize  it. 
Where  are  you  goin',  an'  what  are  you 
goin'  for';  An'  Pet,  arc  you  a-goin'  to 
Uikeher,the  little  dear  that  I've  had  so 
long  V '  and  up  went  her  apron  to  her  eyes, 
whUe  a  sort  of  explosive  sob  struck  Abel's 
car  most  unpleasantly. 

"  Pray,  be  calm,"  he  said,  though  he  was 
more  excited  than  his  landlady.  "  Pray,  be 
calm,  and  I'll  explain  it  in  a  few  words; 
and  you  must  assist  me  all  you  can,  and  be 
as  quiet  about  it  as  possible,  for  I've  a  great 


ABEL'S  SACRIFICE. 


69 


lier  forclicud. 
;in  ever  like 
I  sotUy  (.'lopo 
She  partially 
inc  Utile  hand 
nd  warm  on 
;» the  dews  of 
to  his  heart. 
L-r  fin;^e.  3  had 
is  soul;  and, 
undantly,  Ict- 
!  golden  curls 

r  Mrs.  BattlQ 
evening:  Pef 
alone,  paeir.g 
[9  unnaturally 
id  bright,  like 
rrilile    mental 

.  at  him  with    - 
ed  at  once  into 
without  giving 
lal   imiuisitive 

tile.     I've  sent 
^oing  away." 
I    Going  away ! 
nth's  notice  1  " 
wn  interest  be- 

)  at  once,  day 
you  the  month's 
an  find  another 

3.  Battle  began 
know  all  about 
Iter?  Why,  it's 
an't  realize  it. 
'  what  are  you 
you  a-goiu'  to 
hat  I've  had  so 
pron  to  her  eyes, 
3b  struck  Abel's 

d,  though  he  was 
lady.  "  I'ray,  be 
in  a  few  words ; 
i  you  can,  and  be 

e,  for  I've  a  great 


N    I    ' 


deal  to  think  oA    In  the  first  ph,ce,  you're    never  find  -U,er  like  you ,  "and  ..p  went 


not  to  mention  it  to  any  one ;  it's  strictly 
private.  Tlio  hoiisc  I'm  with  is  obliged  to 
send  a  clerk  to  South  America.  I  am  of- 
fered the  chance;  my  passage  is  taken:  . 
the  shin  sails  Wednesday,  an.l  1  have  a  most  conflicting  en.ol.ons 
great  deal  to  do.  You  must  prepare  f  et 
for  a  long  cea-voyage ;  comfortable  clothes, 
you  \inderstand." 

"  What  makes  you  take  her,  Mr.  Winter  ? 
You  can  leave  her  with  me  :  I'll  be  like  a 
mother  to  her ;   an'  I'll  look  out  that  that 

liactor-man  don't  get  a  sight  of  'er.    Do 

leave  her  with  mo  till  you  come  back !  " 
"  I've  no  <loubt  that  you'd  take  the  best 

of  care  of  her,  Mrs.  Battle,  but   I    don't 

know  as  1  shall  ever  come  back  ;  and  I  have 

decided  to  take  her.    It's  cost  me  enough 

to  decide,  so  don't  try  to  change  my  reso- 
lution; but  get  her  ready,  and  I'll  pay  you 


the  apron,  while  Mrs  Battle  made  her  exit, 
weeping  bitterly. 

After   she   had  gone,  Abel   walked  the 
floor  like   one    poisessed,    a   prey    to   the 

'  I've   dfciil- 
ed  now,  and  I  cWt  recall  it.    I  must  take 
her  with  me  :  I  can't  leave  her,"  he  groiineil, 
heavily  oppressed  with  his  burdened  con- 
scienco.    "  I've  a  right  to  her,  —  the  divine 
right  of  love.     He'll  never  caro  for  her  as  I 
have  :  ho  never  will,  he  never  can.     She'll 
be  every  way  better  with  me.     She  loves 
mc.    I'll  train  her  carefully.    I'll  make  her 
a  good  woman  ;  and  what  guaranty  have  I 
that  he  won't  go  back  to  his  old  ways,  and 
neglect  her,  and  leave  her  to  ruin  ?  It's  my 
duty  to  take  her.     Yes,  it's  my  duty  !  "  but 
the  very  persistency  with  which    he    said 
it  showed  that  he  doubted  it.     "  I  thought 


but  act  ner  reauy,  hiki  ^ "  i"v  .'""    ,     ,    .  ^      •       i     ,  .,,. 

.ell-  said   Abel,   so  finnly   and  harshly    I'd  have  courage  at  the  last  to  give  her  up 
.'Mrs.  Battle  was  a  little  frightened.  but  this  temptation's  too  great  for  me     o 

..Oh!  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  help  you,  for    resist     I  can  take  her   away   out  of   the 
that  matter,  but  it's  hard  for  me  to  lose  the    country,  and  he  w.  1    never  ^^^^^J^ 
.,.d.    I  love  1^  like  my  own,"  and   ^V^ 
^Mlt;:'rArBaUle,Iknowyou  are    It  may  be  that  Providence  ordered  this  s. 


fond  of  her,"  said  Abel,  softening :"  but  it 
can't  be  helped ;  there  are  very  hard  things 
in  life,  and  we  have  to  endure  them  the 
best  way  we  can.  It'll  make  no  difference : 
for,  if  1  wasn't  going  away,  we'd  lose  her  all 
the  same  ;  her  father  would  take  her.  It 
was  he  who  came  the  other  night  to  tell  me 

so." 

"  I  knew  it  was  him,  the  villain.    I  was 
a-peekin'  out  o'  the  parlor  door,  an'  I  knew 


that  i  may  keep  her  with  me.  Yes,  I'll 
take  her.  Wednesday  night  he'll  come  for 
her,  but  he'll  find  her  gone.  The  shij)  will 
sail  in  the  morning  :  at  night  she'll  be  out 
to  sea,  and  he  cannot  ollow  us.  Then  she 
will  be  mine  forever." 

Suddenly  he  stopped  in  his  hurried  walk : 
a  dreadful  pallor  passed  over  his  face ;  and 
he  sank  back  in  a  chair  like  one  who  had 
received  a  mortal  blow ;   for  it  seemed  to 


zz  -,  r:n;;  ziz,  ;„■ ,.. .» ....  p»-,  ^,-^  -  - 


a  mind  to  tell  Betty  to  slap  the  door  to  in 

his  face." 

«  You  musn't  feel  that  way,  Mrs.  Battle : 
she's  his  child,  and  no  one  else  has  a  right 
to  her  :  but  I  shall  take  her  nevertheless, — 
I  can't  give  her  up.    However,  we  won't 


and  said  distinctly, "  Abel,  give  the  child 
to  her  father ;  don't  go  to  twistin'  ropes  o' 
sand  ;  remember,  they'll  break,  an'  leave  you 
a  wreck.  Give  the  child  to  her  father,  and 
trust  in  God  for  the  future."  Then  all  was 
silent.     He  looked  round  wildly  :  the  room 


airanymore   boutVt:getherr:ady,that's    was  empty ;  but  still  he   seemed   to    sec 
laiKan;  "'""  =  .     ,  .   ,       ../•__.».•..„  .i,„  bin.l  linmplv.  wrinkled  face. 


all.  My  books  I'll  have  packed  to  take 
with  me.  The  flowers  you  may  have: 
they'll  make  your  room  pretty  for  your  new 
lodger." 

«  Oh  I  don't  speak  of  it,  Mr.  Winter :  1 11 


before  him  the  kind,  homely,  wrinkUid  flice, 
sublime  with  truth  and  justice,  —  he  seemdl 
to  see  it  as  it  had  looked  upon  him  so  many 
times;  and  yet  he  knew  that  it  had  been 
hidden  under    the    sod    for   nine    years. 


mtit»imt> 


L.,111    _JiB|l'l'     llllLg" 


70 


ROPES  OF  SAND, 


"  Daddy,  daddy  I  "  ho  criuil,  "  I  hear  you  ;  I 
listen  U>  you  ;  I'll  f;ive'  lit  i-  to  lior  father ; 
I'll  leave  the  future  to  (^lod  ;  I'll  do  what's 
right.     Hear  what  I  say,  ami  let  it  he  rejjis- 
tered  in   heaven  !  "     Then  ho  tottered    to 
the  child's  room  ;  and,  throwin;^  himself  on 
the  little  hed  by  her  side,  he  elasped  luif 
in  his  arms,  as  ho  had  onue  before,  to  siiield 
himself  from  the  tempter,  and  j)rayed  be- 
tween his  Bobs,  asking  God  to  help  him. 
At  last  calmness  came,  and  with  it  sleep. 
All  througli  the  night  ho  slumbered  peace- 
fully, with  tho  child  folded  to  his  heart; 
and,  when  ho  awoke,  tho  morning  sun  shone 
into   tho  room.     Then,   atVer  bathing  his 
face,  and  arranging  his  disordered  dross,  ho 
sat  down,  and  wrote  tho  following :  — 


"  Mr.  Thorpe,  —  I've  decided  to  give  up 
the  child  to  you.    To-morrow  morning  I  sail 
for  America,  never  to  return.    Let  mo  siiy  a 
word  to  you  that  comes  from  my  heart.     I 
love  her ;  she  is  dearer  to  me  than  my  own 
life ;  yet  I  leave  her  because  it  seems  to  mo 
to  be  right.    She  is  naturally  a  good  child  : 
if  she  turns  out  badly,  I  do  not  hesitate  to 
say  that  it  will  bo  your  fault.    Think  of  her 
mother's  unhappy  fate,  and  watch  over  her 
as  a  choice  treasure  committed  to  your  care 
which  I  shall  require  from  your  hands,  pure 
and  unstained,  at    the  day  of  final  judg- 
ment.     In  giving  her  up,  I    give  up  all 
that  can  make  life  endurable.     Remember 
that,  and  value  my  sacrifice   according  to 
what  it  has  cost  me.    I  have  but  little  to 
give  her,  —  in  all,  three  hundred  pounds, 
the  half  of  which  is  the  fruit  of  years  of 
self-denial  on  the  part  of  the  good  old  man 
who  cared  for  her  mother.    The  remainder 
I  have  saved  from  my  own  wages.    It  is 
not  much ;  but,  if  properly  invested,  it  may 
be  of  some  use  in  educating  her.    Enclosed 
you  will  find  a  draft  for  the  amount  on  the 
Bank  of  Engliind,  payable  to  you.    I  give 
you  no  advice  in  regard  to  it.    I  trust  to 
your  lovo  for  your  child,  and  the  bitter  les- 
son taught  you  by  your  past  experience. 
Pet  is  young :  she  will  soon  forget  me ;  and 
I  wish  it  to  be  BO.     I  would  not  have  her 
sweit  life  marred  with  one  regret.    Let 


tho  thought  of  what  it  has  cost  me  to  give 
her  up  induce  you  to  bo  faithful  to  her, 
and  I  shall  bo  contented  with  my  sacrifice. 
"Abel  Winter." 


When  he   finished   his  letter  to  Rcjbert 
Tliorpe,   ho  rang   for    Mrs.    Battle,    who 
answered  his  summons  with  red  eyes  and  a 
dejected  air.    "  You'll  think  me  very  uncer- 
tain," ho  said  in  a  voice  of  ibrced  resolu- 
tion ;  "  but  I've  changed  my  mind  in  regard 
to  Pot:  I've  decided   that  it  will  not  bo 
right  tor  mo  to  take  lier  away  from  her  fa- 
ther.   He  will  come  lor  her  tivmorrow  even- 
ing, when  you  will  give  her  to  him  with 
this,"  and  ho    handed    her   tho  letter  he 
had  sealed  and  addressed.     "  Tonlay  you 
must  pack,  and  get  my  things  ready  for  me. 
Tlio   ship  sails  early   to-morrow  morning, 
and  I  shall  go  on  board  to-nij^ht.     Dun't 
say  any  thing  to  Pet  alwut  my  going  away : 
I   don't   want  her   little    heart   saddened. 
Her  father  will  tako  her :  she's  already  dis- 
posed   to  love   him.     Among   new  sienos 
she'll  soon  forget  mo,  and  porhai)s  it'll  bo 
better  for  her  in  tho  end.     I  sha'n'c  bo  in 
through  the  day  ;  put  her  to  bed  to-night, 
and,  after  she's  asleep,  I'll  come  in  and  tako  a 
good-by  kiss."     Here  Mrs.  Battle  covered 
her  face  and  sobbed  aloud  :  tho  anguish  in 
his   voice    affected    her  beyond    control. 
"  Don't,  my  good  woman,  lor  Heaven's  sake, 
don't  weaken  me  with  a  sight  of  your  tears  I 
for  I  need  all  my  strength.     I'm  going  out 
directly  before  Pet  wakes.     You    needn't 
prepare  any  breakfast  for  me.     Amuse  tho 
child,  and  bo  very  gentle  with  her.     Hero's 
your  month's  rent,  and  a  little  gift  for  you. 
I  wish  it  could  bo  more ;  "  and  he  pressed 
a  roll  of  notes  in  tho  hand  of  the  subdued 
and  weeping  Mrs.  Battle.     Then  he  took 
his  hat  and   went  out,  never  as  much  as 
glancing  in  the  direction  of  Pet's  room. 

About  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  he 
returned.  Mrs.  Battle  always  remembered 
it  as  long  as  sho  lived ;  and  she  told  Robert 
Thorpe  how  he  had  crept  up  stairs  tb  take 
a  last  look  at  the  child,  as  weak  as  a  dying 
man,  —  so  weak  that  ho  was  obliged  to 
cling  to  the  railings  for  support;  bow  he 


V   I   ' 


,  nn!  to  j^ivo 
iful  to  hur, 
ly  Huciifit'c. 

VlNTEn." 

r  to  Rijlx^rt 
iliittlu,    who 
I  oyt's  and  a 
very  uiicer- 
rtied  reaolu- 
ntl  ill  rc;^anl 
■will  not  bo 
from  her  fa- 
iiorrow  even- 
to  him  with 
he  letter   ho 
To-diiy  you 
•eatly  for  mo. 
ow  morning, 
ii;,'ht.     Don't 
going  ivway : 
rt   saddened. 
1  already  dis- 
new  Hceues 
rhajis  it'll   bo 
sha'n't  be  iu 
bed  to-night, 
\  in  and  take  a 
attle  covered 
lu  anguish  in 
ond    control, 
leaven's  sake, 
of  your  tears  1 
I'm  going  out 
You    needn't 
.     Amuse  the 
her.     Here's 
e  gift  for  you. 
id  he  pressed 
f  the  subdued 
Fhen  ho  took 
r  as  much  as 
'et's  room. 
B  evening   he 
's  remembered 
le  told  Robert 
stairs  tb  take 
jak  as  a  dying 
as  obliged   to 
pport;  bow  he 


\   I  ' 


ABEL'S  BACRIFIOB. 


71 


bad  come  down  pale  as  death,  with  wide, 
tearless  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  looking 
beyond  this  world ;  how  ho  had  wrung  her 
hands  without  speaking,  and  gone  away 
like  one  walking  in  his  sleep. 

The  child  slumbered  peacefully.   Perhaps 
bcr  guardian  angel  fanned  her  pure  brow 
with  its  soft  wings ;  for  no  dark  shadow  of 
parting  crept  over  her  sweet,  smiling  face, 
as  Abel  Winter  knelt  by  her  bed  like  a 
statue  of  stone,  his  elbows  resting  on  hei- 
pillow,  his  hands  pressed  against  his  tem- 
ples, his  wide,  tearless  eyes  devouring  ".ler 
face.    How  long  he  knelt  there  he  never 
knew  J  for  he  seemed  to  have  changed  into 
a  being  capable  only  of  one  sense,  and  that, 
intense  suffering.    He  had  sunk  below  the 
region  of  tears,  or  risen  to  a  sublimity  of 
grief  that  could  find  no  expression  in  out- 
ward emotion.    At  last,  the  clear,  musical 
chime  of  Bow  Bells  struck  upon  his  ear, 
and  recalled  him  to  himself.    It  seemed 
like  a  summons  to  his  martyrdom.    With 


one  heroic  effort  he  struggled  to  his  feet, 
clasped  the  sleeping  child  in  a  long,  fren- 
zied embrace,  pressed  kiss  after  kiss  u|ion 
brow,  lip,  and  cheek  ;  and  then,  laying  her 
back  half  awake  on  her  pillow,  without 
another  glance,  ho  rushed  from  the  room, 
leaving  her  to  sink  back  into  peaceful 
slumber. 

The  next  morning,  in  the  early  dawn, 
the  ship  sailed  away.  Tlie  rising  sun 
gilded  her  full  sails ;  and,  like  a  joyous  bird 
that  spreads  its  wings  toward  heaven,  she 
went  out  into  the  great  unknown,  bearing 
with  her,  her  freight  of  human  happiness 
and  woo.  She  sailed  away ;  and,  alas  1  no 
eager,  watchful  eye  ever  greeted  her  return. 
She  sailed  away,  and  the  world  knew  noth- 
ing more  of  her  fate. 

Top  and  Violet  sleep  side  by  side  in 
Kensal  Green,  but  only  the  ocean  with  its 
ceaseless  sobbing  was  wide  enough  to  en- 
tomb the  great  heart  of  Abel  Winter. 


■'-.WjSsWPS" 


griiiiimfnif'T''''"'''''--  "'"•''' '"""""  ' """""" 


TT" 


1 


X  ■  ' 


^   ■   ' 


A  WOMAN'S  STORY. 


"Ton  louventr  eit  toiijoura  Ik, 
O  tol  qui  no  peux  plui  m'cntendre  I " 

My  poor  lliioul,  whi-n  ho  furnished  this 
pretty  npartinent  in  the  Avenue  Montaigni-, 
did  not  tliink  that  I  should  one  day  sit 
alone  at  tlio  writing-table  he  bought  for  me, 
sad  and  desolate,  dressed  in  widow's  weeds, 
striving  to  find  some  di-traction  in  making 
this  llUle  sketch;  though  for  wlw-.o  eyes 
besides  my  own  I  cannot  tell,  since  the 
only  eyes  I  should  care  to  read  it  have 
been  closed  for  nearly  two  years.  I 

It  was  a  long  while  belbro  wo  could 
marry.  Raoul  was  «oiM-lieutenant  in  the 
Garde  Nalionale ;  an<l  I,  the  orphan  of  a 
poor  physician,  had  not  a  relative  in  the 
world  besides  an  uncle,  who  was  both  father 
and  guardian  to  me.  I  had  only  a  slender 
dot,  and  Rioul  had  nothing  but  his  small 
pay.  Therefore,  although  we  loved  caclf 
other  devotedly,  it  was  thought  best  by 
older  and  wiser  heads  than  ours,  that  we 
should  not  unite  our  lives  until  something 
had  been  put  aside  toward  beginning  our 
little  menage. 

We  were  both  young  and  ardent,  and  at 
first  it  seemed  hard  to  comply  with  those 
practical    restrictions    to    ofar    happiness. 
However,  time  went  on.     Raoul  was  almost 
alvays  absent  with  his  regiment  in  some  of 
the  provincial  towns,  while  I  passed  my 
dull  days  in   the  peaceful  house   of  my 
uncle,  situated  in  the    pretty  suburbs    of 
Passy.    It  is  true  that  there  were  a  few 
gala  days  to  brighten  my  seven  years  of 
waiting ;  and  these  were  when  my  hand- 
some soldier  obtained  leave  of  absence  to 


pass  a  week  in  Paris,  or,  perhaps,  I  should 
say,  In  Passy ;  for  ho  spent  the  moat  of  Ins 
time  with  us,  ami  a  happy  time  it  was.    My 
uncle  was  very  fond  of  ILioul ;  and  I  was 
so  much  like  a  daughter  to  him,  that  1  .lon't 
belicvo    the    dear    old     .gentleman     ever 
thought  that  he  was  a  bachelor  and  child- 
less.    Gentle  heart !  he  had  had  lii."  romance 
belbro  1  was  born  ;  and  there  was  nothing 
Icll  of  it  but  a  grave  in  the  cemetery  of 
Montmartro,  with  the  name,  "  Silvio,  aged 
18,"  cut  upon  a  simple  stone.     From  my 
earliest  childh.xwl,  the  first  day  of  every 
June  I  went  with  him  to  cover  the  spot     . 
with   roses,  and  I   might  say   witli   tears 
also ;  for  I  always  cried  with  him  to  see  him 
sobbing  over  her  grave. 

As  I   was  saying,  ho   liked   to  see   us 
happy ;  for  ho  remembcrc<l  how  death  had 
robbed  him  of  his  future,  and,  therefore, 
he  trusted  only  the  present.     Looking  back 
to-night,  frdm  ray  desolate  heart,  from  my 
silent  room,  those  sweet  days  that  cheered 
my  seven  years  of  waiting  seem  like  a  ten- 
der, pcacciul  dream  of  childhood.    Though 
often  dull,  I  was  never  unhappy,  while  pre- 
paring mv  simple  trounseau  with  my  own 
hands",  and  attending  to  the  uninteresting 
affairs  of  our  household.     At  last  the  day 
camo  when  my  soldier  rushed  into  our  little 
salon    with    glowing    cheeks,  happy   and 
handsome,  and,  throwing  into  my  lap  his 
papers  of  promotion,  ho  cried  in  a  glad 
voice,  "  Now,  ma  che'rie,  I  am  captain  ;  and 
wo  can   marry."     A  few  days  after,  that 
long-looked-for  event  was  qinetly  solem- 
nized.    Wo  passed  a  very  happy  week  to- 
gether; then  Raoul  went  back  to  Lyons  to 


V 


1 


nt^nRwatMMmMMHMi 


74 


A  WOMAN'S  BTOBY. 


( 


join  liiri  rt'^'linont,  nml  I  ri>mi»lncil  Htlll  with 
my  iiiH'lf,  only  wi-iiv^  i»y  liiMlmn'l  imtji- 
■lonally,  whldi  wan  c'lTtiiinly  it  ({roat  trial 
to  nil';  lint  t'nr  rn;iny  ri-aHoiin  lin  conlil  ruti 
P't  I'xcliiiM^'cd  to  I'arin;  niicl  my  uncif 
llioii;;lit  it  l)oiit  tliiit  I  hhoiild  remain  wiili 
liini  until  Il'ioiil  vtix*  |H'rnianfntly  Ht'ltlcij 
HOMicwIicri'.  So  outwnrilly  llit-ro  was  vi-ry 
litilii  iliU'crunfii  in  my  lil'o,  cxtM-pt  tliat.  I 
wiiM  calliMl  "  niailanif,"  and  itoinctinii!!*  went 
uiit  williont  onr  maid. 

Oni'  niorniii'.'i  niori!  than  two  yearn  after 
our  marria'^e,  Atar^ot,  onr  maid,  rnsthed  into 
my  room,  cryin;^,  "  Momtieiir  Henri  Id 
(leiwl  I  " 

I  followed  her  into  tho  nalnn  ;  and  there, 
just  as  I  had  lell  him  tho  iiiij;ht  hefore,  »at 
my  dear  nncle,  hi.s  head  leaning  a^ainHt 
tho  liaek  of  his  chair,  a  smilo  of  jrroat  con- 
tentment on  his  face,  and  liis  thin  cold 
finders  ela«<])ini?  a  lo<!k  of  brown  hair. 
Yes,  lu!  was  dead,  llaoul  came,  and  we 
hurled  him  hy  Silvit;,  and  put  up  another 
»tono,  with  tho  name. '  Henri,  njjed  00,'  in- 
leribed  nimn  it.  Ki^hleun  nnd  sixty  I 
AViiat  a  ehn!<m  of  years  l)otweon  to  bridj^e 
over  with  tears  and  si;;h»  t 

After  my  uncle's  chsath,  I  was  so  misera- 
ble that  llaoul  would  not  leavo  mo,  with 
only  Mar;{ot,  in  tho  dull  houso  in  Passy. 
\\\i  was  then  cxpectin;;  to  be  exchan<TC'd 
to  Paris  at  once ;  and  as  his  pay,  with  what 
my  uncle  left;  rac,  fully  authorized  a  little 
cxpondituro  beyond  our  usual  economical 
way  of  living,  be  hired  this  apartment 
where  I  am  now  writing,  and  arrangeil  it 
quite  elegantly,  by  adding  a  few  luxuries 
to  the  neat  furniture  which  had  been  famil- 
iar to  me  from  childhood,  and  which  I 
loved  too  well  to  change  for  newer. 

I  have  passed  the  same  number  of  j'cars 
since  my  marriage  that  I  pa88e<l  in  waiting 
for  my  Raoul,  —  seven  years ;  and  I  now  am 
thirty-two,  and  wearing  widow's  weeds, 
with  God  only  knows  how  many  more 
years  to  wait  before  I  shall  be  united  to 
him  again.  Those  seven  years  wore  very 
long  when  I  had  hope  to  uphold  me  ;  now 
what  am  I  to  do  with,  perhaps,  six  times 
that  number  to  live,  and  nothing  to  look 


forwanl  to?  But  should  I  say  nnthintjf 
1  am  ungratufid  and  sinful  to  speak  so 
vaguely  of  the  future.  Altlioii'.;h  I  have 
not  always  Iteen  as  giMxl  and  ])atient  ai 
one  should  Iw,  yet  I  am  sure  I  shall  see  my 
darling  again,  —  only  the  sorrow  ii  in  tho 
long  waiting. 

You  all  know  of  tho  dark  days  that  full 
u[)on  us,  during  which  a  nation  was 
drenched  in  blood  and  tears,  and  beaten 
|)ittless  into  the  very  mire  ;  but,  thank  (Sod  I 
she  is  rising  up  again,  and  shaking  oil'  tho 
stain  of  lior  defeat.  My  France,  cleansed 
with  Iier  own  blood,  is  still  a  nation  for  tho 
world  to  envy ;  ancl  I  am  proud  to  havd 
given  my  all  toward  the  cleansing. 

llaoul  was  in  Lyons  with  his  regiment 
when  the  trouble  began ;  and,  fearing  I 
should  bo  anxious,  he  came  to  me  for  a 
hasty  visit.  In  the  evening  wo  had  a  few 
friends,  as  we  always  did  when  he  came 
home  ;  and  some  one  sang  the  Marseillaiiie. 
My  woman's  lieart  was  faint  with  fear  for 
him.  With  eyes  full  of  tears,  and  my 
hands  cold  and  trembling,  1  drew  him  into 
our  bedroom,  and  said,  while  my  soul  was 
shrinking  with  shame,  "  llaoul,  mon  ami, 
give  up  your  commission  before  war  is  de< 
clarod.  You  must  not  go  to  fight,  and  die 
away  from  me  1  I  have  no  courage  to  beur 
it." 

"  Lache  I "  he  cried  sternly,  putting  my 
clinging  bands  from  his  neck,  while  be 
looked  at  me  with  dry,  burning  eyes.  "  You  I 
a  soldier's  wife  I  You  I  a  Frenchwoman  I 
Quelle  honte  I" 

"  Pardon,  pardon,"  I  implored,  falling 
on  my  knees  at  bis  feet,  for  in  that  moment 
I  adored  him  as  I  never  bad  before.  He 
seemed  to  me  a  king,  and  I  a  disgraced 
subject,  a  traitor  to  my  country.  "  Go,  mon 
dme,  go ;  and  if  you  die  for  France,  I  shall 
rejoice  in  my  widowhood,  even  though  my 
heart  breaks."  Then  I  pressed  my  lips 
to  his  feet,  and  wet  them  with  my  tears. 
He  raised  me  gently,  and  hold  me  close  to 
his  heart,  kissing  my  eyes,  and  whispering, 
"  I  shall  go;  I  shall  6ght  like  a  man ;  and, if 
I  die  for  my  conntry,  I  shall  die  like  a  sol- 
dier.    Have  no  fear  for  me,  cherie,  think 


miy  nothlnfjf 

to     Kjll'ltk    (0 

Iii>ii.;1i  I  hiivo 
)(1  piiticnt  M 
I  hIiiiII  Hfo  my 
TdW  in  ill  tho 

Inyn  that  full 
nut  ion    w»R 
•«,  iiml  lu-aten 

t,  tilllllk  (iiMll 

iiikin;^  olV  tho 

iiKH',  eli'uniuHl 

iiiilion  tiir  tho 

proiiil  to  have 

lllHill;^. 

h  liii*  ro'^imont 
nmt,  renrin<;   I 
iii  to  mu  for  a 
{  wo  hiid  a  fow 
whtm  ho  came 
ho  Mar8c-iliui!<o. 
nt  with  fi-ar  for 
tears,   ami   my 
I  (Irvw  him  into 
ilo  my  soul  wai 
iiuiul,  mon  ami, 
Kiforo  war  i»  do- 
to  fijjht,  and  die 
)  courage  to  bear 

rnly,  putting  my 

neck,  while  he 

jingcyes.  "You I 

i  Frenchwoman! 

implored,  falling 
r  in  that  moment 
had  before.  He 
id  I  a  disgri^ced 
intry.  "  Go,  mon 
or  France,  I  Bhall 

even  though  my 

pressed  my  lips 
m  with  my  tears. 

hold  me  close  to 
!,  and  whispering, 
ike  a  man;  and,if 
all  die  like  a  sol- 

me,  cherie,  think 


A  WOMAN'S  BTORY. 


Ti 


only  of  oiir  Frnnci',  nrnl  pray  for  Iiit  a* 
woiiit-n  pray  who  luvo  honor  nioru  than 
Ilfo." 

It  win  I'liiiii'jli.  I  liiul  inivli'  my  nacrlfirc. 
I  wipcil  iiwity  my  tcarx,  and  followod  my 
husband  into  the  nalnn  whcru  tlicy  still 
sail';.  TIhti',  for  tlio  firxt  time,  I  Joincil 
ill  I  lid  Miirsi'iliairu  with  a  clour  voico  ami  n 
stron'^  heart.  But  do  you  siipposio  I  nuvcr 
rc;;rct?  Ah,  la,  /A  /  I  am  a  woman;  ami 
tiicrc  arc  times  when  I  ijn  not  iico  France 
for  wccpiiv^.  Ni;;lits  when  I  turn  on  my 
pillow,  and  put  out  my  h  iml  for  a  warm 
fiicc!  that  iiKcd  to  lie  close  to  iiiiiic,  and, 
inslcad,  I  cecin  to  touch  a  cold,  wia  wound, 
and  I  sliiidder  and  think  that  I,  too,  am 
drenched  with  his  blood ;  ami  I  am  alone, 
niid  the  ni'^lit  U  no  ctill  and  dark  I  ()  (iod. 
how  drcaiy,  with  no  liiiman  heart  to  weep 
upon  1  Then  I  wi>h  —  but  perhaps  I 
should  not  say  it  —  that  my  R.ioul  had 
been  any  thin;?  rather  than  a  HoMier,  ami 
that  France  had  not  needed  his  life.  Well, 
ns  I  said  before,  our  nation  has  Inu-n  puri- 
fied with  her  own  bloo  1 ;  and  .xlioiilil  I  feel 
BO  proml  to-day  of  my  country  if  I  had 
escHfied  the  criinHon  biptlini '!" 

Tho  next  nioriiiii;^  Raoiil  bade  nio  a 
tender  but  hurried  au  rcvoir ;  he  did  not 
think  it  was  adieu  no  more  than  I ;  nor  did 
the  faintest  furebodin<;  tell  ine  that  I  had 
seen  him  for  the  last  time,  as  I  watched  liiiii 
turn  from  my  8i;;ht  into  the  Cours-la-Ilcinc, 
with  his  (piick,  soldierly  stop,  and  tall,  up- 
right figure.  I  could  not  see  his  face ;  yet 
sometimes  I  think  that  perhaps  it  was  wet 
with  tears,  and  dark  with  the  shallow  of  com- 
ing sorrow,  for  I  remember  how  ho  told  me 
once  that  ho  never  wept  until  ho  was  out 
of  my  siijlit.  Poor  darling  I  we  had  to  part 
so  often  during  the  few  years  of  our  mar- 
ried life,  that  ho  began  to  look  upon  it  as  a 
part  of  his  lot,  and  seldom  ever  complained ; 
still,  I  know  that  his  lieart  ached  each  time 
as  much  as  mine  did.  Although  my  eyes 
were  full  of  te'ars  as  I  turned  from  watching 
him,  still  I  had  no  premonition  that  he  had 
gone  from  my  sight  forever.  I  did  not 
know  that  his  regiment  would  be  ordered 
to  the  frontier  in  a  few  days,  and  that  I 


sliiiiild  hoar  nntlilmx  of  It  until  aOcr  lie  Ii:id 
'.;oiie.  I  may  be  wron.;;  but  I  like  to  think 
that  perhaps  (iod  in  lii.^  pity  ordered  it  so, 
to  i<[iare  us  the  pain  of  parting'. 

I  did  not  bei;iii  tills  simplu  story  with 
the  intention  of  telling  you  only  of  my  own 
troubles ;  but  iinknowiiii;ly  one  iicioii'ilcal, 
and  it  is  ho  naturit.1,  when  one  ol>i«>ct  (ills 
the  memory,  to  i<peak  €>f  «hi»»,  ratlicr  than 
annilu'r.  Althuinyh  '  i,ave  been  •>•  iifrii  ken, 
and  although  (»rav5-loffe  aad  S  ilan  are 
burned  ii[K)n  my  lu.-'^rv  and  briiim,  iMid  I 
am  haunted  ''.rxv.'r  with  a  Imrriiti  red 
wound  acrosN  the  wl>ito  torchi'iiml  oif'  iiiy 
Raoill,  and  a  wider,  redder  won  I  ■  i  tlio 
earth,  where  lie  was  thrown  wiik  _.iit  Ireils 
of  others,  yet  with  it  a.11  rheire  coiuos 
before  iiio  tho  beaiitifiiil  luir«  of  omn  il  loved 
like  a  sister,  and  ivitli  it  ammiier  face, 
darker  and  more  brilliant,  that  I  ^imetimes 
wish  I  had  never  seen;  not  tliii  I  loved  it 
less  than  hers,  not  because  df  my  own 
regrets,  but  tor  her  dear  sake  who  was 
hidden  away  from  my  sight  only  yesterday. 

I  did  think  that  my  own  history,  unevent- 
ful though  it  had  been  until  tlut  last  few  > 
years,  would  have  lengthened  out  to  a 
number  of  pages ;  but  now  it  seems  to  mo 
that  I  have  told  it  all  in  these  very  few, 
and  that  I  must  introduce  my  other  char- 
acters at  once  to  make  any  thing  of  a 
story.  Certainly,  any  one  will  know  that, 
though  tho  greater  p.irt  of  my  life  was 
passed  in  dull  tran(|uillity,  the  last  few  years 
must  liave  been  tragic  and  stormy  enough, 
and  that  I  might  fill  almost  volumes  by 
describing  minutely  my  own  feelings ;  but, 
if  I  should  do  so,  the  pa|>or  on  which  I 
write  would  be  so  wet  with  tears  as  to 
make  the  characters  entirely  illegible. 
Therefore  I  prefer  to  speak  as  little  as  pos- 
sible of  myself,  while  I  tell,  as  intelligently 
as  I  am  able  to  do,  something  of  the 
romance  of  Aglad  Thevdnot's  life.  Indeed 
I  could  not  write  more  particularly  of  tho 
dreadful  scenes  through  which  I  have 
passed,  of  my  bereavement,  of  the  misery 
which  fell  ujion  our  country,  without  speak- 
ing of  her,  so  closely  has  she  been  inter- 
woven with  it  alL 


76 


A  WOMAK'S  S-  ORY. 


'i  f: 


i\ 


On   the  very  day  when   Raoul  brought 
me   to  look  at  my  new  apartment,  as  we 
ascended  the  stairs  slowly,  —  for  it  sfcmed 
very  hiij;h  to  me  after  our  cottage  in  Passy, 
—  the  door  of  the  entresol  opened,  and  a 
lady  came  out,  followed   by  her  servant. 
Her  lovely,   intelligent    face,   and    sweet 
smile,  interested  us  both  ;  and,  as  soon  as  we 
were  well  out  of  hearing,  we  said  in  the 
same  breath,  "  I  wonder  who  she  is."     A 
few  days  after  we  were  established,  Margot 
informed  me  that  the  lady,  with  an  aged 
aunt,  occupied  the  entresol,  and  that  she 
was  called  Madame  Aglae  Tiicvenot.     So 
much  for   Margot's  ability  in  discovering 
who  our  neighbors  were.     After  that,  we 
met  often  on  the  stairs,  going  in  and  out ; 
and  her  graceful    salutation   was   always 
returned  by  me  with  one  as  cordial  as  her 
own.      Gradually  we  fell   into  speaking ; 
and  one   day,  feeling  emboldened  by  her 
kindness,  I  asked  her  if  I  might  come  ;  nd 
make  her  a  little  visit  sans  ceremonie.     She 
seemed    delighted  with   my  jiroposal,  and 
told  me  with  the  nioft  winning  smile,  that; 
as  I  was  the  elder,  she  had  been  waiting 
for  me  to  make  the  first  advances  toward  a 
friendship.     It  is  true  I  was  her  senior,  but 
not  by  iis  many  years  as  she  thought ;  for 
she  was  twenty -six  she  told  me,  and  I  was 
not  then  thirty :  yet  I  am  so  serious  and 
plain,  that  I  appear  much  older  than  I  am. 
AVhen  Raoul  came  home  at  the  end  of 
the  month,  he  found  us  fast  friends ;   and 
he   soon   learned  to  like  her  as  much  as 
I  did.     During  that  time,  we  had  had  many 
confidential  talks;  and  I  had  learned  from 
her  that  she  was  an  orphan,  as  well  as  my- 
self.   Oh  1  how  I  pitied  her  when  she  added, 
"  And  a  widow  1 "     She  noticed  my  naive 
expression  of  Eorrow,  and  said  with  a  'ittle, 
sad  laugh,  "  Why,  my  dear,  you  should  con- 
gratulate me ;  for  my  four  years  of  married 
life  were  the   saddest  yea's  I   have 'ever 
known.     I  was  married  at  seventeen,  and 
my  husband  was  more  than  sixty." 

"  Then  you  did  not  love  him  ?  "  I  asked, 
with  a  feeling  of  trouble  that  I  could  not 
conceal. 
'•  Oh,  no  1  not  in  the  least.    I  never  saw 


him  but  three  times  before  the  day  of  our 
marriage.     Aunt  arranged  it  while  I  was  in 
school.     You  see  I  bad  no  dot;  and  so  I 
could  not  expect  to   marry  for  love.     IIo 
was  rich,  and  it  was  thought  to  be  a  very 
fortunate  thing  for  me  ;  but  the  worst  of  all 
was,  that  he  was  not  kind  to  me.     He  was 
as  jealous  and  as  cruel  as  a  Turk  ;  and  so 
miserly,  he  never  allowed  uie  a  son  that  I 
did  not  account  to  him  for.     I   can    lau;;h 
even  now  at  the  ridiculous  rage  he  went 
into  when  I  once  spent  a  franc  for  'vn-bons. 
I  don't  think  our  personal  nnnoyant 's  and 
disappointments  are  the  worst  features  in 
our  system  of  marriage.     What  I  despise 
most  are  the  deception  and  sin  which  iire 
so  often  hidden  under  a  form  of  duty.     Per- 
haps, had  I  been  of  a  difierent  character,  I 
might  have  consoled  my  aching  heart  as 
other  poor  women  have  done;   but,  as  it 
was,  I  struggled  tl^ough  with  no  serious  self- 
condemnation.     However,  it  was   a   great 
relief  when  he  died.     I  received  with  the  ut- 
most propriety  the  condolence  of  my  Irienils, 
wore  widow's  weeds  the  prescribed  time, 
and  erected  a  handsome  monument  to  his 
memory    in    Pere-la-Chauie.     What   more 
could  I  do  ?      A   few   months  ago  I  laid 
aside  my  mourning  with  a  feeling  of  free- 
dom I  never  before  experienced.     There- 
fore I  am  not  at  all  a  subject  for  your  gentle 
pity,  although  I  have  had  my  disappoint- 
ment." 

"  But  you  are  young,  lovely,  and  rich,"  I 
said,  still  feeling  very  sorry  for  her :  "  you 
can  now  make  a  marriage  of  affection." 

"  Oh,  no  I "  and  she  sighed  sadly.  "  I 
must  always  remain  his  widow  :  his  jealousy 
and  avarice  fetter  me  to  hiu:  yven  now. 
He  left  his  fortune  in  such  a  way,  that,  if  I 
marry  again,  it  will  all  go  to  a  distant  rela- 
tive, whom  he  always  hated  and  neglected ; 
but,  as  much  as  he  disliked  him,  he  would 
rather  he  should  have  it,  than  that  I  should 
be  happy  with  another  after  his  death. 
What  a  contemptible  character  he  had  1  I 
dislike  even  to  speak  of  him.  But  don't 
think  that  I  am  dissatisfied  with  my  present 
condition,  or  ever  wish  to  marry  again.  Oh, 
no  I  I  have  never  yet  seen   the   man  for 


i 


Ix. 


A  WOMAN'S  8T0EY. 


77 


le  (lay  of  our 
while  I  was  in 
'ut ;  and  so  I 
'or  love.     IIo 

to  be  a  very 
he  worst  of  all 

inc.  He  was 
Turk  ;  an'l  so 

a  son  that  I 

I  can   luu;4h 

rage  he  weui. 
nc  for  !'on-bons. 
nnoyant>'s  and 
rst  features  in 
Hiat  I  di-spisd 

sin  which  j'.re 
I  of  duty.    Per- 
■nt  character,  I 
L'hing  heart  as 
sne;   but,  as  it 
J  no  serious  self- 
t  was   a   great 
ived  willi  the  ut- 
je  of  my  friends, 
)rescribed  time, 
lonumcnt  to  his 
!.     What   more 
[iths  ago  I  laid 

feeling  of  free- 
•ienced.  Therc- 
ct  for  your  gentle 
.  my  disappoint- 

ely,  and  rich,"  I 
•y  for  her :  "  you 
of  affection." 
ghed  sadly.     "I 
(low :  his  jealousy 

bin:    uvcn   now. 

a  way,  that,  if  I 
to  a  distant  rela- 
id  and  neglected ; 
id  him,  lie  would 
than  that  I  should 

after  bis  death, 
•acter  he  hadl     I 

him.  But  don't 
id  with  my  present 
marry  again.  Oh, 
een   the   man  ibr 


whom    I  would  resign  my   dearly-bought  I 
freedom." 

"  lie  is  in  the  world,  and  he  will  come," 
I  said  wiih  a  strong  conviction.  "I  have 
aljyays  believed  that  there  is  some  one  cre- 
ated for  every  person,  if  they  are  only  so 
fortunato  as  to  meet;  and  it  is  not  at  all 
impossible  to  find  the  right  one,  since  I 
with  my  few  attractions  secured  such  a 
prize  as  Raoul." 

She  laughed,  and  replied,  "  I  am  so  fas- 
tidious, that  any  one  in  the  least  inferior  to 
him  would  not  suit  me ;  and  he  is  so  excel- 
lent that  I  am  sure  I  shall  never  find  his 
like." 

It  was  early  in  the  month  of  June,  two 
years  after  we  went  to  live  in  the  Avenue 
Montaigne.    I  remember  the  time  perfectly, 
because  it  was  the  eve  of  Raoul's  /ete,  and 
he  had  come  to  pass  it  with  mc,  as  he  always 
did  before   and  after  our  mariiage.    The 
weather  was  very  warm  for  the  season,  and 
after  dinner  Aglae  ami  I  sat  on  the  balcony. 
The  windows  were  all  open,  and  the  salon 
was  full  of  flowers  ;  our  Iriends  had  brought 
a  great  many ;  and  the  others  Aglae  had  se- 
lected that  morning  at  the  Madeleine,  and 
arranged   with   such  skill   that  the    room 
looked  like  a  bower  of  roses.    I  thought  it 
all  very  pretty,  and  I  was  so  happy  because 
it  was  done  for  Kaoul :  but,  as  much  as  I 
admired  the  flowerp,  I  admired  Aglad  still 
more;    she   looked   unusually  lovely,  ui   a 
soft,  while  dress,  a  cluster  of  scarlet  ceillet 
mixed  with  reseda  (listening  the  broad  col- 
lar that   turned  gracefully  away  from  her 
throat,    llaoul  had  gone  to  invite  a  brother 
officer  to  dinner  with  us  the  next  day ;  and 
we  two  chatt'"'  alone  until  the  soft  twilight 
giithcred  around  us,  and  the  music  from  the 
Champs-Flyse'es  sounded  clear  and   sweet, 
mingled   with   the  voices  of  the   passers. 
Murgot  was  bringing  in  the  lamps,  and  the 
salon  door  was  open.    I  turned,  and  saw 
Raoul  entering  with  a  gentleman  whom  I  had 
never  seen  before.     Somewhat  surprised,  I 
came   in   from    the    balcony,   followed   by 
Aglae;    and  my  husb;;nd  ])resciited   "  M. 
lihadi  Effendi,  attache  prh  I'amhassadcur 
de  Turquie."     1  was  very  much  impressed 


with  the  foreign  title,  as  well  as  with  the 
appearance  of  the  young  man  who  stood 
before  us,  bowing  low  in  the  Oriental  fash- 
son,  all  eyes  and  teeth,  as  I  said  afterward. 
I  had  never  seen  such  a  brilliant  face  as  his  ; 
its  beauty  quite  startled  me.  Ikfore  he 
had  well  finished  his  salutation  to  me,  his 
s])lcndid  d.irk  eyes  fell  upon  Aglae  with  a 
look  of  unmistakable  admiration,  llaoul 
then  presented  liim  to  our  friend  ;  and  I 
livncicd  a  flush  passed  over  his  clear  olive 
cheek  as  he  turned  toward  her. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  I  whispered  to  my  hus- 
band, while  our  visitor  was  talking  with 
Aglae  on  the  balcony,  —  "  is  it  possible 
that  he  is  the  Turk  of  whom  I  have  heard 
you  speak,—  tile  one  who  watched  poor  Vic- 
tor through  his  last  illness  ?  Victor  was  a 
cousin  who  had  died  of  a  malignant  iiver 
that  spring  ;  and  I  had  often  heard  R  loul 
speak  of  this  young  man's  devotion  to  him 
during  his  dreadful  sickness, 

"  The  very  same,"  rci)lied  my  husband, 
while  he  assisted  me  with  the  tea  to  drown 
ourconversation.which  otherwise  might  have 
been  heard  on  the  balcony  ;  and  don't  yon 
think  him  very  elegant,  as  well  as  remark- 
ably handsome  ?  As  I  was  walking  up  the 
Champs-Elyscea  \vi  was  walking  down  :  wo 
stopped  to  speak  a  mcmcnt,  when  he  re- 
minded me  of  a  promise  thut  I  had  made 
him  to  introduce  him  to  you;  so  I  brought 
him  up.    Invite  him  for  dinner  to-morrow, 

cherie." 

I  gave  M.  Rhadi  a  cup  of  tea  with  my 
own  hands.  He  took  it,  thanking  me  very 
prettily;  and  while  he  gii)ped  it.  talking 
gayly  at  the  same  time,  in  excellent  French, 
to  Aglae,  i  studied  him  a  little.  He  v.'as 
considerably  above  the  inediiiin  htight; 
slight,  with  well-shaped,  mus..'ular  limbs, 
small  feet,  and  slender,  nervous  hands ;  his 
shoulders  were  scjuare,  and  rather  broad ; 
his  neck  and  head  finely  shaped ;  his  beau- 
tiful dark  eyes  looked  out  steadily  and 
frankly  from  under  a  pair  of  heavy  brows ; 
his  skin  was  of  a  pale,  clear  olive;  and  his 
'  mouth,  perfect  in  form,  smiled  as  sweetly  as 
a  woman's,  with  a  little  expression  of  bash- 


fulness  that  was  very  winning.     1  am  aware 


0 


iit 


78 


A  woman's  story. 


.»    r 


A        }> 


f   i'l 


i 


that  this  Imperfect  description  can  give  you 
but  a  feeble  idea  of  his  brilliant  and  strik- 
ing beauty ;  still  it  is  the  best  I  can  do,  as 
I  never  had  any  gift  for  word-painting,  and 
the  most  expressive  terms  I  can  use  seem 
pale  and  poor  when  I  think  of  him  as  I  first 
saw  him  ;  therefore  I  will  leave  it  to  your 
imagination  to  fill  out  the  faint  outline  I 
have  given  you.  The  more  I  studied  hiin, 
the  more  I  wondered  that  he  could  be  a 
Turk ;  and  the  old  saying,  '■  Cruel  as  a  Turk," 
the  same  that  Aglac  had  used  in  speaking 
of  her  husband,  came  into  my  mind.  "  He 
does  not  look  cruel,"  I  thought ;  "  and  yet 
I  should  scarcely  like  to  see  him  angry."  I 
glanced  at  Aglad.  She  was  lovely  :  some 
new  emotion  beautified  her.  What  if  she 
should  learn  to  love  himY  The  possibility 
filled  me  with  forebodings  of  sorrow ;  and  I 
pressed  llaoul's  hand  with  such  a  strong 
clasp  that  he  looked  at  me  inquiringly. 
Perhaps  if  I  had  told  him  of  my  fears  then, 
that  which  happened  afterward  raiglit  have 
been  prevented ;  for  I  am  sure,  if  we  could 
have  looked  into  the  future,  we  never  would 
have  encouraged  an  acquaintance  by  asking 
him  to  dine  with  us  the  next  day. 

After  tea  the  conversation  became  gen- 
eral ;  and  some  remark  led  M.  llhadi  to 
speak  of  himself.  "  I  am  a  Persian,"  he  said ; 
"  or,  rather,  I  was  born  in  Persia,  of  Turkish 
parents.  When  I  was  a  child,  my  father, 
through  the  force  of  events,  became  an 
officer  under  the  Sultan ;  and  I  was  edu- 
cated a  Mahominedan,  or  a^  nearly  as  one 
can  be  who  believes  in  God,  and  does  not 
believe  that  Mahomet  was  his  prophet." 

"  Tlien  you  are  a  Christian?"  said  Aglad 
with  sudden  interest. 

"  I  profess  no  creed,  madame,"  he  replied 
with  a  low  bow.  "  I  worship  God  ;  I  wor- 
ship the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and 
all  that  he  has  made  beautiful." 

While  he  s]>oke,  his  face  was  so  brilliant 
with  animation  and  intelligence,  that  one 
given  to  fine  language  would  describe  him 
as  an  Eastern  Apollo,  a  child  of  the  sun,  a 
passionate  Persian,  overflowing  with  the 
romance  and  poetry  of  the  Orient.  To  me, 
simple  as  my  f'uncies  are,  he  seemed  like  a 


I  irince  who  had  stepped  for  a  moment  out 
of  some  Arabian  tale  into  the  homely  real- 
ity of  our  every-day  life. 

After  he  had  gone,  Aglad  remained  silent 
for  some  time,  apparently  lost  in  thought, 
while  Riioul  and  I  watched  her  with  inter- 
est. Suddenly  she  started  from  her  reverie, 
and  said  with  some  confusion,  "  A  Turk  ! 
'  Cruel  as  a  Turk '  cannot  apply  to  al!  Turks ; 
for  he  does  not  look  cruel,  <loes  he  i  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Rtioul,  smiling. 
"  What  an  idea  to  associate  with  hiin  ! "  I 
know  he  was  thinking  of  poor  Victor  when 
he  added,"  I  iim  sure  he  has  a  kind  heart." 

"  One  would  think  so,"  she  said  absent- 
ly, as  Raoul  opened  the  door  for  her  to  go 
down ;  for  it  was  late.  Then,  as  she  went 
out,  she  looked  back,  smiled,  and  kissed  her 
hand  to  me,  but  without  saying  a  word ; 
which  was  strange,  seeing  she  had  been  so 
animated  all  the  evening. 

My  husband  laughed,  and  said,  "  She  is 
pleased  with  Rhadi,  iind  he  is  pleased  with 
her.     It  is  easy  to  see  how  that  will  end." 

I  did  not  like  him  to  speak  so  lightly,  for 
something  told  me  that  there  was  a  fatality 
in  their  meeting.  Although  I  have  been 
much  ridiculed  by  sensible  people,  I  still 
believe  with  the  jioet  in  — 

"  A  illvlnlty  that  Bhapco  our  cnd«, 
Bough'bcw  them  how  wo  wlU." 

and  now,  knowing  their  sad  fate,  I  am  more 
than  ever  impressed  with  the  belief  that 
some  influence  other  than  that  of  ordinary 
events  brought  about  the  meeting  between 
Rliadi  EfTendi  and  Aglae  Thcvenot. 

The  next  day  our  guests  were  all  wait- 
ing in  the  salon  some  time  before  A  ;lae 
camo  up.  She  was  late:  whether  Tom 
capriciousness,  or  whether  from  t-.king 
more  tiiiin  ordinary  pains  with  her  toilet,  I 
do  not  know ;  however,  it  was  past  the  time 
announced  for  dinner,  and  I  noticed  that 
M.  Rhadi's  eyes  sought  the  door  anxiously, 
while  a  shadow  of  disappointment  passed 
over  his  expressive  face.  At  last,  when 
even  I,  as  much  as  I  loved  her,  had  grown 
impatient  at  the  delay,  she  entered  the 
salon  as  indifferently  as  though  she  had 


iimm'.'^  Hyig«i!e^-j<tivJ.a  jwnw.':  ■'  rm*v 


moment  out 
le  homely  real- 

emnint-d  silent 
St  in  tliouglit, 
ler  with  iriter- 
11)  her  reverie, 
on,  "  A  Turk  ! 
ly  to  al!  Turks; 
es  lie  •? " 
loul,   smiling. 

Iwith  him  I "  I 
r  Victor  when 
a  kind  heart." 
u  siiiil  ab.senN 

r  for  her  to  go 

in,  as  she  went 
and  kissed  her 

aying  a  wonl ; 

le  had  been  so 

said,  "  She  is 
is  pleased  with 
that  will  end." 
ik  so  lightly,  for 
re  was  a  fatality 
;h  I  have  been 
3  people,  I  still 

t  our  ends, 
we  wiU." 

fate,  I  am  more 

the   belief  that 

that  of  ordinary 

leeting  between 

lievenot. 

were  all  wait- 

e    before  i\  ;lae 

whether   'roin 

r    from    t  .king 

'ith  her  toilet,  I 

as  past  the  time 

I  noticed  that 

door  .inxiously, 

•intment  passed 

At  last,  when 

her,  had  grown 

he  entered  the 

bough  she  had 


A  woman's  story. 


79 


been  the  first  to  arrive  instead  of  the  last. 
She  looked  exceedingly  pretty,  but  a  little 
paler  and  graver  tlian  usual.  M.  Rhadi 
saluted  her  with  a  profound  reverence, 
while  his  face  changed  as  suddenly  as  does 
a  dark  cloud  when  a  ray  of  sunlight  (lashes 
upon  it.  She  bowed  to  him  a  little  coldly, 
but  greeted  our  other  guests  with  more 
than  usual  effusion.  His  expression  of 
delight  turned  instantly  to  one  of  chagrin  ; 
and,  drawing  haughtily  back,  he  looked  out 
of  the  window  in  moody  silence.  I,  seeing 
that  he  was  annoyed,  and  wishing  all  my 
guests  to  be  at  ease,  very  injudiciously 
asked  him  to  take  Madame  Thdvcnot  in  to 
dinner.  He  did  so,  and  they  certainly 
seemed  veiy  well  satisfied  with  the  ar- 
rangement; for  they  laugbed  and  talked 
with  the  freedom  of  two  happy  children. 
I  think  it  was  a  pleasant  dinner  to  all  ex- 
cepting myself;  for  there  was  one  little 
incident  that  marred  my  enjoyment,  —  so 
little,  that  perhaps  I  should  not  mention  it. 
Bha<li  EiTendl  had  filled  a  very  delicate 
Venetian  glass,  and  was  raising  it,  with  a 
compliment  (or  Aglac  upon  his  lips,  when 
suddenly  it  fell  (i-om  his  fingers,  and  shiv- 
ered to  atoms  on  his  plate,  spattering  the 
wine  right  and  left.  His  hands,  as  well  as 
R  loul's,  who  sat  next  to  him,  were  covered ; 
and  it  looked  like  blood.  There  was  some- 
thing disagreeable  in  the  sight ;  and  I  fairly 
turned  cold  when  I  saw  a  large  splash 
crimson  Aglae's  white  dress  just  over  her 
heart.  I  suppose  we  were  all  too  polite  to 
show  any  confusion.  M.  Rhadi  excused 
himself  gracefully,  while  he  wiped  the  wine 
from  Aglae's  dress  with  his  own  handker- 
chief. Jean  removed  the  plates,  and  served 
the  next  course  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened ;  but  I,  —  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes 
off  the  red  stain  on  Aglae's  dress.  Besides, 
I  felt  very  sorry  for  the  loss  of  my  glass, 
which  had  belonged  to  my  dear  uncle  ;  and, 
it  being  the  only  Venetian  glass  I  owned, 
I  had  placed  it  for  M.  Rhadi,  as  he  was 
our  most  di!<tinguished  guest. 

We  took  our  coffee  in  the  salon:  the 
evening  was  very  warm  again,  and  the  win- 
dows  were   open.     Our  guests   were    all 


friends  of  long- standini?  except  M.  Rhadi 
and  Aglac.  Some  attraction  seeincd  to  draw 
them  together,  away  from  the  others  ;  and 
they  stood  side  by  sidi'  on  the  balcony,  en- 
gaged in  earnest  conversation.  I  wish  I 
were  a  jioet,  or  an  artist,  so  that  I  could  de- 
scribe them  as  they  appeared  to  iiie  at  that 
moment.  I  am  sure  1  have  never  seen  any 
thing  more  lovely  in  art;  but  why  should 
IV  for  is  not  nature  always  more  beautiful 
than  art  'I  Tlie  dark  trees  in  the  Cluimps- 
Elysees,  the  clear  sky,  and  the  full  iii<K)n, 
made  a  very  pretty  background  for  the 
white  figure  of  Aglae,  who  stood  with  her 
face  turned  towards  us :  as  she  leaned 
against  the  railing  of  the  balcony,  her  fin- 
gers were  idling  with  the  leaves  of  an 
exquisite  rose  that  had  adorned  the  button- 
hole of  M.  Rliadi's  coat  a  few  moments 
before.  Her  eyes  were  cast  down,  until  the 
long  lashes  ahnost  rested  on  her  slightly 
flushed  cheeks,  while  a  smile  that  spoke 
elofjuently  of  entire  contentment  played 
around  her  mouth,  and  sol'teneil  her  face 
into  almost  childish  beauty.  Her  compan- 
ion leaned  over  her,  a  itriking  contrast  to 
her  fairness,  — graceful,  persuasive,  ele- 
gant :  his  splendid  eyes  seemed  to  devour 
her  face. 

"  What  if  they  should  love  one  another?  " 
I  whispered  to  Raoul. 

"  How  can  they  help  it  ?  "  he  rej)lied,  I 
hoped  he  would  say  something  more,  for  I 
was  full  of  uneasiness ;  but  just  at  that  mo- 
ment Madame  Aubert  began  to  sing,  and 
of  course  we  were  silent. 

That  happy  evening  came  to  an  end,  as 
all  happy  evenings  must.  I  often  wonder 
why  time  seems  so  much  shorter  when  we 
are  happy.  Without  doubt  hap;iiuess  is 
only  an  emotion,  the  same  as  is  s( .  row ; 
and  I  cannot  understand  why  one  should 
make  the  hours  fly,  and  the  other  make  them 
drag.  1  am  no  philosopher,  neither  am  I 
the  least  clever  in  finding  out  reasons  for 
things;  yet  I  have  thought  much  on  this 
subject,  and  have  come  to  a  conclusion, 
which,  after  all,  may  not  be  the  right  one,  — 
that  sorrow  is  only  selfishness ;  that,  while 
we    are    unhappy,    we    are    thinking    of 


80 


A  woman's  story. 


ourRulvcc ;  and  that  while  \re  arc  hapi>y, 
wc  arc  thinkin;j;  of  some  one,  else  Aglad 
did  not  know  she  had  hetraycd  her 
sceret,  nor  (.'onfirmt'd  mo  in  my  sim- 
ple theory,  when  she  sail.'  afterward,  "  I 
never  knew  so  .^^hort  and  so  hap|iy  an  even- 
ing in  all  n)y  life  before."  ]t  was  as 
thou;j;h  she  had  said,  "  I  tiioii;;ht  only  of 
M.  Rliadi,  and  never  of  myself."  Poor 
eliild  !  it  was  the  beginning  of  a  happiness 
that  she  had  better  never  have  known. 

Well,  to  go  on  with  ray  story :  from  that 
day,  Rhadi  ElTcndi  became  an  almost 
constant  visitor ;  and,  as  Aglae  was  with 
mo  a  great  deal,  she  saw  him  very  often. 
I  believe  I  have  not  mentioned  before,  that 
her  aunt,  on  aeeount  of  a  lameness,  never 
left  her  room :  therefore  the  poor  girl  was 
very  much  confined,  not  having  an  older 
person  to  go  out  with  her.  1  call  her  a  girl ; 
for  she  still  seemeil  so  young,  although  she 
had  made  that  marriage,  which  I,  with  my 
old-fashioned  notions,  could  never  think 
any  thing  but  unfortunate.  You  eannot 
wonder,  then,  that  my  cheerful  salon,  and 
the  eharining  society  of  Ilhadi  EfTendi,  was 
a  most  welcome  distraction  to  her,  when 
she  had  so  little  to  amuse  her :  not  because 
she  could  not  receive  in  her  own  home ;  for 
being  rich  and  young,  as  well  as  handsome, 
she  could  have  furroundcd  herself  with 
visitors,  which  would  have  been  quite  nat- 
ural under  the  circumstances.  Still,  she 
often  told  me  that  she  did  not  like 
general  society ;  and  that  she  did  not  en- 
courage attention,  because  she  did  not  wish 
for  it.  In  that  respect,  she  had  a  superior 
characti'r,  tor,  although  she  was  so  lovely, 
she  was  not  in  the  least  coquettish ;  and  for 
that  reason,  I  was  certain  that  her  evident 
liking  i(jr  Rhadi  EfTendi  was  not  a  mere 
capricious  fancy.  Week  after  week  passed 
away,  until  I  began  to  count  by  months 
the  time  since  their  first  meeting ;  and  yet 
a  word  had  never  been  said  by  either  ex- 
planatory of  their  true  feelings;  still  I  saw, 
as  plainly  as  two  eyes  can  sec,  that  M. 
Rhadi  was  deeply,  passionately,  devoted  to 
Aglae.  Indeed,  it  did  not  need  words ;  for 
every  changi)  in  his  expressive  face  told  it 


more  clearly  than  the  most  eloquent  lan- 
guage. His  sudden  clouds,  his  equally 
sudden  smiles,  his  nervous  restlessness 
when  she  was  absent,  his  excited  joy  when 
she  was  present,  were  all  first  symptoms  of 
his  absorbing  passion.  Then  succeeded 
strange  abstractions,  gloomy  broodings,  ten- 
der, almost  tearful  regards,  a  slavish  devo- 
tion to  her  slightest  wish,  a  watchfulness,  a 
patience  and  gentleness,  that  were  quite 
pathetic.  lie  grew  pale  and  thin;  his 
eyes  glowed  under  his  contracted  brows 
like  smouldering  fires;  his  mouth  seemed 
drawn  and  sad,  and  sometimes  I  fancied 
his  white  teeth  looked  almost  cruel,  t^ntil 
he  smiled :  there  was  something  wonderful 
in  his  smile ;  it  seemed  to  illuminate  hia 
whole  faeo  with  a  sort  of  divine  light, 
driving  away  instantly  every  shadow  that 
rested  there.  At  other  times  he  would  be 
haughty,  defiant,  sceptical,  scornful,  almost 
brutal,  in  his  remarks,  until,  suddenly,  a 
strange  expression  would  pass  over  his 
face ;  and  he  would  clasp  his  hands,  and  cry 
out,  '^ Mon  Dieu!  I  hato  myself!"  then, 
rushing  impetuously  from  the  room,  he 
would  leave  Aglae  and  I  looking  at  each 
other  in  astonishment.  Often  she  would  say 
with  a  sigh,  "  I  almost  fear  him :  in  these 
moods  he  seems  possessed  with  a  demon; 
and  yet  how  sweet  and  gentle  he  is  at  other 
times  I     Ah  me !  how  will  this  end  ?  " 

I  had  often  asked  myself  the  same  ques- 
tion, therefore  I  wa«  unable  to  answer 
hers ;  and  perhaps  I  was  even  more  per- 
plexed than  she  with  it  all.  Because  I 
was  not  blinded  by  love,  I  saw  more  plain- 
ly the  danger,  and  yet  could  discover  no 
way  to  avert  what  had  jvlready  arrived. 
Aglad  too,  about  this  time,  was  most  uncer- 
tain in  her  behavior.  For  several  days  in 
succession  she  would  be  feverishly  gay; 
and  this  unnatural  frivolity  was  sure  to  be 
followed  by  a  period  of  gravity  that  was 
almost  solemnity;  when  she  would  go 
about  like  one  smitten  with  a  heavy  grief, 
absorbed  in  her  own  serious  thoughts,  from 
which  all  my  little  devices  were  powerless 
to  arouse  her.  Again  she  would  be  as 
fretful  and  capricious  as  a  child,  weeping 


iJlL 


ost  eloquent  lan- 
luds,  his  equally 
vous    restlessness 
excited  joy  when 
first  symptoms  of 
Then   succeeded 
nv  broodinss,  ten- 
a  slavish  devo- 
a  watchfulness,  a 
that  wcro  quite 
Ic   and  thin ;   his 
ontractcd  brows 
8  mouth  seemed 
letimes  I  fancied 
Iraost  cruel,  ijntil 
nothing  wonderful 
to  illuminate  his 
;  of  divine  light, 
?vcry  shadow  that 
imes  he  would  be 
il,  scornful,  almost 
until,  suddenly,  a 
Id   pass  over    his 
his  hands,  and  cry 
ite  myself!"  then, 
om  the    room,  he 
I  looking  at  each 
)flen  she  would  say 
fear  him  :  in  these 
led  with  a  demon ; 
;cntle  he  is  at  other 
ill  this  end  ?  " 
self  the  same  ques- 
unable  to    answer 
as  even  more  per- 
it  all.     Because  I 
,  I  saw  more  plain- 
could  discover  no 
1  already  arrived, 
le,  was  most  uncer- 
For  several  days  in 
be  feverishly  gay; 
ility  was  sure  to  be 
f  gravity  that  was 
in    she   would    go 
with  a  heavy  grief, 
ious  thoughts,  from 
;es  were  powerless 
she  would  be  as 
IS  a  child,  weeping 


A  woman's  story. 


81 


sullenly,  and  refusing  all  my  efforts  to  con- 
sole her.  I  pitied  them  both,  and  waited 
ptitieiitiy,  hoping  that  she,  at  least,  would 
voluntarily  make  nio  a  confidant  of  her 
feelings.  The  time  came  at  last.  One 
afternoon  Ilhndi  had  been  sitting  with  us. 
He  had  brought  a  volume  of  poems  written 
by  Jaini,  a  Persian  poet  of  the  fourteenth 
century ;  and,  to  give  us  some  idea  of  the 
literature  of  his  country,  ho  had  read  one 
aloud,  in  his  own  musical  and  majestic 
language ;  and  afterwards  had  graccfuHy 
translated  it,  —  so  gracefully,  that  I  think  it 
did  not  lose  any  of  the  beauty  of  the  senti- 
ment, which  was  a  regret  for  a  lost  love ; 
not  a  dead  love,  but  a  living  lost  love, 
'which  to  me  is  the  most  pitiful  of  all  losses. 
The  harmony,  glowing  color,  passion,  and 
pathos  of  the  complaint  softened  my  feel- 
ings, so  that  I,  unsentimental  as  I  am,  almost 
wept,  while  the  tears  rolled  slowly  over 
poor  Aglad's  face.  She  had  grown  suddenly 
pale,  —  paler  than  I  had  ever  seen  her. 
Rhadi  did  not  notice  her  emotion ;  for  before 
he  had  finished  the  poem,  she  had  regained 
her  usual  composure :  and  when  he  closed 
the  book,  she  told  him  with  a  smile,  that  he 
had  read  it  so  exquisitely  as  to  make  her  for- 
ever in  love  with  Persian  poetry.  He  bowed 
low,  with  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  went 
away  directly,  more  silent  and  grave  than 
ever.  When  he  had  gone,  suddenly  —  so 
suddenly  that  it  startled  me  —  she  clasped 
my  neck,  and  cried  out  in  a  voice  I  shall 
never  forget,  "  I  love  him,  I  love  him  I  and 
in  that  poem  he  bus  read  his  fate  and 
mine." 

"  But  why,"  I  asked,  trying  to  soothe 
her,  "  why  his  fate  and  yours  ?  You  arc 
both  free,  you  love  him,  and  there  can  be 
no  doubt  of  his  love  for  you  :  then,  what 
cause  is  there  for  unhappiness  ?  " 

"  It  is  because  he  loves  me,"  she  said 
between  her  sobs,  "  that  wo  must  part.  I 
cannot  marry  him  :  every  thing  is  against 
it.  My  position,  his  religion,  bib  ■■■ery 
nature ;  for  I  fear  him  as  much  as  I  love 
him.  No,  no :  I  would  not  dare  to  become 
his  wife,  for  I  should  only  be  his  slave ; 
and  I  cannot  sacrifice  the  liberty  that  I 
0 


have  bought  at  such  a  price.  It  is  impos- 
sible :  we  can  never  marry,  and  Platonic 
love  will  not  satisfy  such  a  nature  as  his. 
I  must  be  all  to  hiui  or  nothing.  I  have 
known  it  for  some  time,  and  I  have  sulfered 
so  much ;  and  yi.'t  I  have  no  strength  to 
deny  myself  the  dangerous  pleasure  of 
seeing  him." 

Before  giving  her  any  counsel,  I  tried  to 
calm  her;  for  she  was  very  much  excited, 
and  very  wretched  at  the  dismal  thou<iht 
of  giving  him  up  forever.  I  must  confess 
that  I  did  not  see  the  necessity  of  it ;  for  I 
believe  that  love  should  overcome  every 
obstacle,  and  make  every  sacrifice,  to  attain 
its  end :  this  I  told  her  as  clearly  as  I 
could,  at  the  same  time  advising  her  to 
listen  entirely  to  the  dictates  of  her  own 
heart  and  conscience,  instead  of  the 
promptings  of  worldly  interest.  Before  I 
had  said  half  to  her  that  I  wished  to  say,  a 
visitor  was  announced;  and  she  left  me, 
and  went  down  to  her  own  room.  In  the 
evening  I  went  to  her,  and  was  told  by  her 
maid  that  she  had  gone  to  bed  with  a 
severe  headache.  I  did  not  disturb  her,  but 
sat  alone  all  the  evening,  thinking  sadly  of 
both;  and  perhaps  I  felt  more  pity  for 
Rhadi  than  for  her :  for  to  me  her  conduct 
seemed  inexplicable,  if  not  selfish.  If 
Riioul  had  only  been  there,  that  I  could 
have  talked  it  over  with  him,  I  should  have 
felt  better ;  but  as  it  was,  I  went  to  bed 
with  a  very  heavy  heart. 

The  next  day  M.  Rhadi  came  ;  and,  not 
finding  Aglat  with  me,  he  went  down 
to  ask  after  her  health.  He  came  back 
almost  directly ;  and,  throwing  himself 
into  a  chair,  he  said  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
"  She  is  ill,  confined  to  her  room.  I 
could  not  see  her,  and  she  did  not  even 
send  me  a  kind  message.  She  might 
have  sent  me  a  kind  word  :  I  know  nothing 
at  all  of  what  this  means."  He  spoke 
impatiently,  and  there  was  an  ugly  shadow 
on  his  face  which  I  did  not  like  to  see 
there.  I  had  grown  to  love  him  dearly  :  he 
seemed  like  a  brother  t/  me.  There  was  so 
muc-li  sweetness  and  .rankness  in  his  na- 
ture, in  spite  of  its  uiystery  and  contradic- 


i  • 


82 


A   WOMAN'S  STORY. 


tioii,  that  no  one  could  be  inditTurcnt  to 
liiiii ;  and,  bcvsides,  Uacjul  lovud  liiiu.  I 
watc'la'il  liiin  fioinu  tiinu,  while  he  sat  with 
hid  uriiis  toldL-d,  and  hisi  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
fluur,  wonderin<r  what  was  |>assin;r  in  \i\a 
soul,  when  suddenly  he  utarted  like  one 
aroused  iroui  a  dream,  and  cried  out  in  the 
same  way  as  A;;lae  had  done  the  day 
betbre,  '"I  lovo  her,  I  love  her!"  'Hien, 
covering;  his  face  with  his  hands,  he  burst 
into  tears,  and  wept  so  passionately  that  I 
was  f'ri;;hteni"d  as  well  as  surprised.  Ah, 
nie  !  I  can  sec  him  now  sitting  there,  his 
pride  completely  crushed,  his  handsome 
head  bowed,  and  the  great  tears  falling  in 
drops  between  his  fin;;ers.  I  never  saw 
Kiuml  weep ;  and  I  am  thankful  I  never 
did,  (or  the  thou|^ht  ot' it  would  break  my 
heart  now.  I  loved  jwor  Khadi  too  well 
to  see  him  so  distressed  without  tryinjj;  to 
comfort  him,  and  in  that  way  I  became 
hln  confidant  also.  During  an  earnest  con- 
versation ol'  more  than  an  hour,  h«  told  me 
of  all  his  struggles  and  anxieties,  — how  he 
hadloved  Aglae,  from  the  first  moment  that 
he  had  seen  her,  with  the  only  lovo  of  his  life, 
—  a  life  that  had  been  any  thing  but  happy. 
lie  spoke  sa(Hy  and  briefly  of  his  father's 
death,  his  lonely,  neglected  childhood,  his 
conflicts  with  destiny,  that  seemed  at  first 
all  against  him,  his  ellbrts  to  gain  the  posi- 
tion that  he  had  at  last  secured  through 
the  kindness  of  the  ambassador,  who  had 
been  like  ca  father  to  him,  and  to  whom  he 
owed  every  thing.  "  At  first,"  he  said, 
"  although  !  knew  I  loved  Madame  Thdvd- 
not,  T  could  not  decide  to  ask  her  to  become 
my  wife,  because  such  a  step  would  be 
ruin  to  my  future  prospects ;  and  I  had  not 
the  strength  and  courage  to  resign  all  for 
love,  4'ven  to  the  affection  and  patronage  of 
my  pitsha,  who  wishes  to  marry  his  only 
daughter  to  me,  as  soon  as  she  is  of  age, 
and  in  that  way  to  stivn.'then  the  bond 
of  interest  already  estabi'  i'yd  between  us. 
I  love  him  ;  I  owe  him  every  duty  ;  he  will 
be  deeply,  and  perhaps  justly,  indignant 
at  my  ingratitude,  and  will  cast  me  olT 
without  the  least  hope  of  reconciliation  ; 
y(!t  I  have  decided  to  ondure  it  all  for  her 


lovo,  to  resign  for  her  an  honorable  and 
brilliant  future,  an  alliance  with  the  daugh- 
ter of  one  of  the  most  j)owerful  ])rinces  in 
the  Ottoman  Empire,  and,  more  than  all, 
the  love  and  confidence  of  the  man  who 
has  been  a  father  to  me.  Now  you  can 
understand  a  little  what  this  decision 
has  cost  me,  —  what  a  strife  there  has  been 
between  my  heart,  my  duty,  and  my 
worldly  interests :  my  nights  have  been 
sleepless,  my  <lays  a  torture.  I  have  been 
torn  to  pieces  by  conflicting  feedings.  The 
honor  and  wealth  that  has  been  my  life- 
long desire,  on  one  hand ;  her  love,  her 
beauty,  her  goodness,  on  the  other.  Ah, 
dear  inadame  I  how  could  I  decide  but  in 
favor  of  n>y  own  heart,  my  own  life,  and 
hap|)iness  ?  and  hers  also ;  for  she  loves  me, 
—  am  I  not  right  ?  " 

He  stopped  speaking,  and  looked  at  me 
anxiously,  while  he  wij)ed  his  fbrelicad ; 
for  he  had  told  his  story  with  so  much 
feeling,  so  earnestly  and  so  rapidly,  that 
great  drops  of  'sweat  had  gathered  like 
rain  on  his  face.  I  pitied  him  beyond 
expression  :  he  seemed  almost  exhausted 
with  his  mental  conflict,  and  I  knew  it  was 
not  over ;  for  I  remembered  my  conversa- 
tion with  Aglad  the  day  before,  and  saw 
tliat  an  obstacle,  perhaps  more  serious 
than  any,  was  still  to  be  overcome.  I  ad- 
mired him  for  his  noble  sacrifice,  and  in 
my  heart  I  blamed  her  for  what  seemed  to 
me  only  selfishness ;  yet  I  was  sure  she 
loved  him.  So  what  could  I  say  other  than 
to  give  him  that  assurance  ?  As  lie  went 
away,  after  a  little  more  conversation,  he 
said,  "  To-morrow  I  shall  come  to  know 
my  fate.  I  can  sacrifice  every  thing  for 
her ;  but  does  she  love  me  with  the  same 
demotion?  " 

I  could  not  answer ;  and  so  I  said  nothing, 
but  pressed  his  hand  encouragingly. 

The  next  day  Aglae  came  up  looking 
pale  and  very  sad ;  and  I  thought  I  detected 
an  expression  of  firm  resolve  aroun<l  lier 
mouth  that  did  not  predict  a  favorable  re- 
ception of  llhadi  EfTendi  if  he  came.  She 
did  not  speak  of  him  ;  neither  did  she  refer 
to  the  conversation  of  the  day  before,  but 


XI  f 


^iai3MS(assmsrrs:n!^i5r^^S^''^5S5^'^«?:- 


A  woman's  8TORT. 


83 


honorable  and 
ith  the  (liuii;li- 
rful  princes  in 
uoro  than  all, 
the  man   who 
Now  you  can 
this    decision 
thi're  has  been 
liity,   and    my 
hts   have  been 
.     I  have  been 
feelin<;s.    The 
been  my  lil'o- 
her  love,  her 

10  other.     Ah, 

I  decide  but  in 
y  own  life,  and 
:br  she  loves  me, 

d  looked  at  me 
(1  his  forehead; 
with  so  much 
so  rapidly,  that 
d  gathered  like 
ed  him  beyond 
most  exhausted 
id  I  knew  it  was 
ed  my  conversa- 
belbre,  and  saw 
s  more  serious 
)vcrcome.  I  ad- 
sacrifice,  and  in 
what  seemed  to 
I  was  sure  she 

1 1  say  other  than 
e  ?     As  he  went 

conversation,  he 

II  come  to  know 
I  every  thing  for 
ae  with  the  same 

so  I  said  nothing, 
uragingly. 
came  up  looking 
thought  I  detected 
solve  around  her 
:t  a  favorable  re- 
if  he  came.  She 
ither  did  she  refer 
e  day  before,  but 


talked  absently  on  indifferent  subjects.  Wo  I 
heaid  tlic  bell.  She  turned  drcadlully  pale.  , 
and  Idoked  around  as  though  siie  would  like 
to  es('a[)e ;  but  at  the  moment  Margot  nn- 
noiiuiod  M.  Uliadi  Etl'endi.  lie  entered  : 
with  a  '^rave  almost  stern  face,  more  | 
elegant  in  Ids  dress  than  ever,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  more  refined  in  every  way,  even  to 
the  faultless  linen,  pale  gray  gloves,  and 
linnt  Oriental  perfume  which  always  be- 
trayed his  i)resenee.  (To-day,  while  looking 
over  a  desk  of  Aglae's,  I  came  upon  a  pack- 
age wrapped  in  Turkish  paper  which  emit- 
ted that  same  perfume.  I  will  not  inter- 
rupt my  story  to  speak  of  its  contents  now  : 
later,  when  all  is  finished,  I  will  tell  you 
why  I  wept  over  it,  and  then  laid  it  away 
reverently.)  I  welcomed  him  warmly,  but 
I  think  my  face  was  not  free  from  anxiety ; 
and  Aglae  half  rose  up,  extended  her  hand 
a  little  fearfully  and  coldly,  and  then  sank 
back  into  her  chair  without  a  word. 

After  the   usual  commonplace  remarks, 
M.   Uliadi  turned  to  her,  and  said,  very 
>  J  '  slowly  and  seriously, "  Madame,  I  have  some- 

thing to  say  to  you  of  the  greatest  impor- 
tance. It  must  be  said  todiiy.  Will  you 
do  me  the  favor  to  hear  it '(  "  She  bowed 
slightly  in  reply  to  his  question ;  and  he  went 
on,  in  the  same  formal  way,  to  make  his  ex- 
planation. "  As  I  came  up,  I  stopped  at  your 
door :  your  maid  told  me  that  you  were  here. 
Will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  descend?  or  will 
you  allow  me  to  speak  in  the  presence  of 
madamc,  if  she  will  kindly  permit  it  ?  " 

I  did  not  wish  to  be  present  at  a  moment 
so  trying  to  both  :  therefore  I  arose  to  leave 
the  room,  when  Aglae  seized  my  hand,  and 
said  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  much  uneasi- 
ne«s,  "  Remain,  remain  !  What  can  M. 
lll.adi  have  to  say  that  you  caitnot  hear  ? 
Whatever  it  be,  I  prefer  that  you  should 
hear  it." 

That  was  how  I  came  to  be  a  witness  o 
the  interview  that  decided  their  whole  des- 
tiny. It  makes  me  tremble  even  now  to 
think  of  it.  Ah  !  if  I  had  had  the  power  to 
arrest  the  fatal  words  that  destroyed  their 
happiness  forever ;  but,  if  it  had  been  given 
me,  would  I  have  dared  to  use  it  ?    Per- 


haps not;  fori  could  not  have  been  sure 
that  I  shoidd  have  savtMl  her  ;  one  knows  so 
little  of  what  is  for  the  best. 

Ilhadi  looked  at  Aglae  earnestly,  (lushing 
and  paling  while  she  spoke  ;  and  when  she 
said  to  me,  "  I  preti^T  tliat  you  should  hear 
it,"  he  exclaimed  impetuously,  "  Madame 
has  already  heard  it.  I  have  told  her  of  my 
love  for  you,  my  adoration,  my  consuming 
passion.  It  is  useless  to  repeat  it  to  you 
who  already  know  it.  I  only  wish  to  ask 
you  whether  you  love  me  in  return,  and 
whether  you  are  willing  to  become  my  wife 
at  once." 

Aglad  turned  very  pale,  and  I  put  my  arm 
around  her,  thinking  that  she  was  about  to 
faint ;  but,  after  a  little  trembling,  she  re- 
covered her  composure,  and  said  firmly,  "  I 
love  you :  you  must  have  known  it  Ibr  some 
time." 

Before  she  had  fairly  finisheil  the  sen- 
tence, he  sprang  toward  her  with  such  an 
expression  of  joy  as  I  had  never  before  seen 
on  any  face  ;  and,  clasping  her  hands,  he 
pressed  them  over  and  over  to  his  lips,  call- 
ing her  his  angel,  his  soul,  his  life,  in  tones 
that  must  have  gone  deep  into  her  heart. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  warm,  sweet 
smile,  —  a  smile  that  seemed  to  transfigure 
her  into  a  divine  loveliness,  but  only  tor  an 
instant ;  then  a  cold,  hard  stillness  settled 
over  her  face.  Struggling  to  withdraw  her 
hands,  she  said  rapidly.  "  Yes,  yes,  I  love 
you:  God  knows  I  love  you!  my  aching 
heart  tells  me  I  love  you  I  but  it  is  of  no 
use  to  repeat  it ;  for  I  can  never,  never  be 
your  wife." 

Suddenly,  as  suddenly  as  though  he  had 
been  smitten  helpless,  he  let  her  hands  fall, 
and  started  away  from  her  with  such  a  louk 
as  I  can  imagine  Lucifer  casting  at  the  niigei 
who  hurled  him  from  the  battlemenis  of 
heaven.  It  was  terrible.  I  was  trembling 
with  fear ;  and  Aglad  cowered  under  it  aa 
though  it  were  a  scorching  blast.  At  length 
he  spoke,  but  his  voice  was  so  changed  that 
I  should  never  have  known  it  for  his.  '*  Is 
your  decision  irrevocable,  madamc  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  replied  Aglae  in  a  scarcely  artic- 
ulate voice. 


-  im^^.^mi0i»emmmmt4 


1'  • 


84 


A  WOMAN'S  STORY. 


'•  I  will  a«k  for  no  reasons :  it  is  onou^li 
thiit  tiiuro  aru  reasons.  I'anlon  niu  tor 
bavin;;  tr(jiil)lo(l  you :  I  will  trouhlo  jou  no 
more,"  and,  Irowiii;;  almost  to  the  flwr,  lie 
turneil  to  leave  the  room. 

I  could  not  endure  to  have  him  leave 
A'r\ii6  without  any  further  explanation  :  so  I 
laid  my  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  said  gently, 
"  Do  not  }j;i)  away  angry :  there  is  muili  to 
be  said  yet,  much  to  soften  the  bitterness 
of  this  moment." 

"  No,  no :  nothing  can  soften  it.  I  am  not 
a  child  to  be  soothed  with  sweet  words  : 
there  is  nothing  to  bo  said.  Allow  mo  to 
go  in  peace." 

"  Listen  to  me,"  implored  Aglad,  taking 
his  hand  and  pressing  it  to  her  tear-wet 
face  ;  "  listen  to  nie,  Uhadi.  Do  not  leave 
me  in  anger;  do  not  condemn  me  un- 
heard I  I  love  you ,  —  you  know  1  love 
you ! " 

A  scornful,  sceptical  smile  flickered  over 
his  face,  while  he  said  coldly  and  cruelly, 
"  No  more,  no   more  falsehood,   I  entreat, 
unha|)py  woman.     Do  not  attempt  to  play  a 
farce.  I  understand  you  too  well :  you  cannot 
impose  your  lollies  upon  me."    Aglae  drew 
away,  frightened  by  his  violence,  while   he 
continued,   more  fiercely  than  before  :  "  I 
have  lieard  your  profession  of  love ;  but 
something  within  me  refuses  to  believe  you. 
You  swear  you  love  me  ;  you  are  free  :  and 
yet  you  will  not  became  my  wife,  ha,  ha  !  " 
his    sharp,   mocking    laugh    thrilled    me 
through  and  through ;  and  his  teeth  gleam- 
ed like  an  angry  tiger.     "  I  must  confess  1 
am  more  surprised  at  your  folly  than   at 
your  wickedness,  if  you  think  you  can  im- 
pose a  caprice  upon  me,  and  make  me  be- 
lieve it  to  be  love.    Be  truthful,  and  say 
that  your  heart  is  of  very  little  value ;  that 
one  can  easily  touch  its  depths ;  that,  when 
you  have  won  your  victim,  you  weary  of 
him  and  desire   another ;  that  you  bestow 
your  preference  on  the  first  who  comes,  and 
withdraw  it  as  easily  ;  that  you  amuse  your- 
self by  deluding  the  confident,  —  in  short, 
that  you  are  a  heartless  coquette,  and  not 
the  exceptional  woman  I  thought  you  to  be. 
Say  any,  or  all,  of  these  things ;  but  do  not 


profane  love  by  giving  its  name  to  your 
vanity." 

"  Mon  Dieul"  I  cried,  aroused  to  indig- 
nation at  his  injustice  and  cruelty  to  Aglad, 
who  had  fallen  on  the  floor,  abnost  at  his 
feet,  with  raised  hands,  as  if  to  ward  off  a 
heavy  blow.  "  llememlier  to  whom  you 
are  speaking ;  brutality  is  useless ;  yo  ir 
taunts  and  insults  are  misplaced :  un- 
h.appily  she  loves  you  too  much  to  defend 
herself  with  the  same  weapons.  You  will 
not  listen  to  her  explanation ;  there  are 
obstacles  "  — 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  are  obstacles  !  "  ho  inter- 
rupted passionately  ;  "  but  what  are  obsta- 
cles when  one  loves  V  I  lell  you  they  are 
nothing.  Have  1  not  overcome  the  great- 
est? You  know  what  1  have  put  under 
my  feet,  and  yet  you  talk  coldly  of  obsta- 
cles. I  am  disappointed, — bitterly  disap- 
pointed ;  my  heart  is  bleeding,  my  head  is 
troubled.  Say  no  more.  In  pity  allow  me 
to  go,  that  I  may  recover  myself.  I  shall 
strive  to  bo  a  man.  1  shall  live ;  I  shall 
eat  and  drink  and  laugh  ;  but  there  will  be 
a  frightful  void  here ; "  and  he  laid  his  hand 
on  his  heart,  while  ho  smiled  a  ghastly, 
unnatural  smile. 

I  did  not  like  him  then  —  no,  I  absolutely 
feared  him ;  for  in  that  moment  ho  looked 
like  a  man  capable  of  any  thing ;  and  I  did 
not  wish  to  see  Aglad  abase  herself  to  no 
purpose ;  so,  whispering  to  her,  I  bade  her 
rise,  but  she  seemed  neither  to  hear  nor  to 
heed  me ;  there  was  a  dreadful  grief  in  her 
face,  a  longing  and  a  fear  in  her  eyes  that 
I  could  not  understand. 

"You  will  not  leave  me  forever,"  she 
sobbed  at  length,  "  O  Rhadi  1  have  pity : 
I  sufier  more  than  you.  Come  to  me 
when  you  are  calmer,  and  I  will  explain 
all." 

"  There  can  be  no  explanation,"  he  inter- 
rupted harshly.  "  A  word  from  you  would 
have  made  me  happy,  —  only  a  word :  I 
asked  no  more.  A  thousand  now  can  be  of 
no  avail.  The  wound  is  here  in  my  heart, 
nothing  but  death  can  cure  it.  I  love  you. 
I  shall  never  see  you  again :  adieu  1 "  And 
before  either  Aglad  or  I  could  say  another 


Mm 


A  WOMAN'S  STOKY. 


aine  to  your 

ised  to  indlg- 
I'lly  to  AgliwS, 
tliiiost  iit  his 
to  waril  off  a 
.()  whom  you 
U!*t'h'»s;  yo'ir 
sphtcud :  un- 
u;h  to  defend 
)n8.  You  will 
n ;   theru  are 

es  !  "  he  intcr- 
luit  arc  obsita^     , 
,  you  thoy  are 
liny  the  great- 
ve   put   un(hir 
oldly  ol"  obsta- 
■  i)ilterly  diHap- 
ni^,  u>y  head  is 
1  pity  allow  mo 
nysulf.     I  shall 
U  live ;  I  shall 
ut  thoru  will  bo 
lie  laid  his  hand 
ilcd  a  ghastly, 

no,  I  absolutely 
nent  he  looked 
ling ;  and  I  did 
c  herself  to  no 
[jer,  1  bade  her 
to  hear  nor  to 
Iful  grief  in  her 
her  eyes  that 

e  forever,"  she 

,di  1  have  pity  : 

Come  to   me 

I  will  explain 

lation,"  he  inter- 
froni  you  would 
only  a  word;  I 
d  now  can  bo  of 
ere  in  my  heart, 
it.  I  love  you. 
:  adieu  1"  And 
}uld  say  another 


word,  he  rushed  from  tho  room,  leaving  us 
in  blank  dismay. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence ;  an<l 
then  A^^'lae  laid  her  hand  on  mine,  and 
said  calmly,  "  I  told  you  he  was  cruel,  — 
do  you  remember,  —  cruel  as  a  Turk.  I 
said  it  after  I  had  seeu  him  for  the  first 
time.  I  knew  it  was  his  nature  ;  still  I  did 
not  think  he  coidd  be  cruel  to  me,  and 
accuse  uie  so  unjustly.  But  he  has  betrayed 
his  true  character,  and  I  li-ar  him  more 
than  ever.  It  is  over:  ho  has  gone;  and 
now  all  that  remains  for  mu  is  to  for^^et 
that  I  have  ever  seen  liiin,  to  banish  him 
from  my  heart  entirely,  liut  how?  but 
liow  V  "  then  her  imnatural  calm  breaking 
down  before  a  Hood  of  memories,  she  sank 
into  a  chair,  and  sobbed  bitterly. 

I  tried  to  comfort  her  by  telling  her  that 
perhaps  when  he  was  calmer  he  would 
return,  and  that  matters  could  be  arranged, 
with  a  bettor  feeling  on  both  sides.  Still, 
like  a  foolish  woman,  I  added,  "  I  wish  you 
had  never  seen  him." 

"  It  is  too  late  now,"  she  said,  with  a 
wan  sndle;  and  then  she  fell  a-weeping 
again,  at  the  thought  of  all  the  happy  hours 
that  she  had  passed  with  him,  hours  which 
she  well  knew  could  never  be  restored  to 
her  as  beautiful  as  they  had  been,  with  the 
freshness,  the  romance,  the  confidence,  the 
grace,  of  a  fii*st  love. 

I  cannot  tell  you  in  detail  of  the  sorrow- 
ful days  that  followed  this  sudden  and  pain- 
ful parting, — of  the  feverish,  restless  days 
when  Aglad  wanderud  about  from  room  to 
room,  like  an  uneasy  spirit,  pale,  silent,  and 
tearless.  Sometimes  she  would  sit  absorbed 
in  long  reveries  from  which  I  could  only 
arouse  her  by  suddenly  pronouncing  the 
name  of  Rhadi.  Again  she  would  lie  for 
hours  on  the  sofa  in  my  room,  her  eyes 
closed,  her  hands  clasped  over  her  heart, 
while  from  time  to  time  she  uttered  a  sharp 
moan  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  very 
depths  of  her  suffering  soul ;  or  she  would 
talk  calmly,  but  in  a  pitiful,  'plaining  voice, 
of  the  scenes  in  which  Rhadi  had  been  an 
actor  with  her.  Recounting  minutely  each 
little  event,  dwelling  fondly  on  every  evi- 


dence of  his  love,  she  would  say,  "  Do  you 
remember  when  he  said  this?  or  did  that  ? 
Have  you  for^;otten  the  evening;  when  we 
sat  and  watched  the  moon  rUi'.  bcliiiiil  the 
trees  in  the  ClimpiM-Eli/sdes ;  how  he  said  ho 
would  rather  look  ai  me  than  at  the  moon  '.' 
All  I  his  flattery  was  tixj  sweet  to  me.     I 
knew  he  was  proud  and   sensitive ;  but    I 
thought    him   so   tender,   so   very  tender. 
How  (juickly  he  woulil  detect  llie  slif;hU'st 
shadow  on  my  face,  the  fuintest  i'lian;j;e  in 
my  voice  I  How  careful  he  was  of  my  health  ! 
He   feared   the   winds    of    heaven   would 
touch  me  too  roughly.     He  said   ofteu  he 
envied  the  sunlight  that  caressed  my  hair, 
the  earth  under  my  feet.    Every  thing  I 
touched  seemed  siicrcd  to  him.     How  ol'ien 
I  had  smile<l  ut  delectiii;.;  hiiii  in  the  act  of 
concealing  some  worthless  thing  that  I  had 
cast   aside !     A   withered  flower,  a   I'adecl 
libbon,  a  torn  glove,  a  shred  of  silk  froiii 
my  embroidery,  were   all  precious  to  hiiu. 
What  devotion,  what  care,  what  sweet  and 
graceful  attention  I     How  can  I  live  without 
him  ?  how  can  I  live  to  know  that  I  havo 
lost  him  forever  ?  "  . 

She  seemed  to  have  no  thought  beyond 
the  time  in  which  he  had  loved  her  ;  those 
few  months  comprised  her  life  :  before  she 
had  known  him  she  had  only  half  lived  ; 
after  she  lost  him  she  seemed  like  a  body 
without  a  soul,  a  pale  shadow,  a  dead  leaf 
driven  by  the  restless  wind  of  passion.  "  I 
am  nothing,"  she  would  say,  when  I  begged 
her  to  take  some  interest  in  life :  "  all  is  over 
for  me  ;  I  have  no  aim,  no  desire,  no  hope." 
She  never  left  tho  house  :  any  society,  save 
mine,  seemed  hateful  to  her ;  tho  noise  of 
the  streets  worried  her  beyond  endurance, 
the  glare  of  the  sunlight  made  her  shiver. 
She  wept  freely  at  a  glimpse  of  the  sky, 
beautiful  with  moon  and  stars ;  the  per- 
fumes of  the  flowers  they  had  loved  and 
worn  turned  her  pale  and  faint;  music 
alTected  her  to  such  a  degree  that  I  dared 
not  touch  my  piano,  or  sing  one  note  of  a 
familiar  song  when  she  was  present.  AU 
though  she  did  not  speak  of  it,  I  knew  she 
was  constantly  expecting  something;  for, 
whenever  the  bell  sounded,  she  would  start 


r 


m 


A  WOMAN'S  STORY. 


up  with  pnrttMl  lips  and  oh«imi-  pyi'!«,  only 
to  HUik  l)ii<k  with  a  lunvy  sigli  "f  ilUiii>- 
poiiiliiu'wl.  Neiirly  a  month  pii««'«l  awiiy 
in  lliirt  »u\U\  of  min«k'il  cxiK'ctiitloii  iiiid 
doHpalr.  In  the  inoininj;  she  would  say, 
"  Perhaps  to-day  I  hIhiH  m")  l'""-  "i"  •"^'*'* 
fi-oui  him."  At  ni'^ht  -he  would  xob  and 
moan,  "  I  chall  nee  him  no  moio :  he  i*  gone 
forever." 

Noticing  she  looked  very  111  one  day,  I 
questioned  her  about  her  heavy  eyes,  (lushed 
cheokd,  anil  languid  movements;  and  nhe 
confessed  that  fho  did  not  sleep ;  that  she 
had  not  slept  since  that  dreailful  day,  only 
at  short  and  rare  intervals ;  that  a  f  ver 
was  eonsumiuR   her,   a  weakness   gaininj^ 
Ui)on  lier  to  whieh  she  felt  that  she  must 
loo-i  sueeuuil).     At  times  the  old  pride  and 
gelfishuess  would  flame   up  lor  a  moment, 
and  she  would  cry  out  rc(;retfully,  "  I  am 
insane  to  think  of  him  !  I  am  worse  ;  1  am  a 
poor,  fe<-l)le  creature  to  sutler  fiir  one  so  cruel 
and  severe.     It  it  not  better  to  be  free  ?    I 
am   fri'e;    and    that  should   sufliie."     At 
other  times,  especially  when  she  lay  alone 
in  the   lon;^   sjiring   twilight,  —  for  it  was 
spring  again,   and    nearly   a    year    since 
Raoul's  birthday  dinner,  —  she  would  sigh, 
and  murmur  as  though  she  feared  to  have 
mo  hear  her  confession,  "  I  am  so   ired  1  I 
am    so   wretched  1    If  tears    and    prayers 
could  give  me  back  his  love,  I  would  go  on 
my  knees  at  his  feet;  but  he  is  cruel  and 
unrelenting :  ho  does  not  love  me  now  ;  for, 
.    if  he  loved  me,  ho  would  not  leave  mo  to 
die.    I  am   so  young  to   diol   1  have  no 
desire  for  death ;    and  yet  I  cannot  live 
without  him." 

I  had  written  to  Raoul,  begging  him  to 
come  homo  as  early  in  the  month  as  possi- 
ble ;  lor  I  thought  that  perhaps  his  presence 
might  divert  her  a  little  from  her  sorrow, 
lie  came  as  soon  as  he  could  obtain  leave, 
and  was  more  shocked  than  was  I  at  the 
change  in  Aglae.  "  She  will  die,"  ho  said, 
overhand  over,  "unless  a  reconciliation 
can  bo  arranged.  She  is  foolir<h,  and 
more,  — she  is  to  blame  for  her  selfishness. 
If  she  loves  him  so,  why  does  she  not 
renounce   all,  and   become    his  wife?      I 


must  coi\(''8»  1  do  not  understand  such  a 

love." 

"  Neither  do  1."  I  remarked,  thinking 
how  easily  I  could  make  any  sacrilice  for 
llaoul. 

"  And,  Uhadi,  it  seems  so  unlike  him  :  I 
thought  him  ail  gentleness.  Why,  he  was  as 
tender  as  a  woman  Ui  Victor." 

"His  pride  is  woundfd,  his  (•(mfideneo 
abiis''d,  and  he  has  an  untbrgivin,'  n  iture  ; 
besides,  he  does  not  Iwliovo  in  a  love  ihiit 
is  not  entire  abnegati,>n,"  I  sni>l  ;  for  I 
likeil  him  still  so  well  that  I  eould  lu.ike 
excuses  for  him.  "  1  i)ity  Agl.ie  as  nin.  h  as 
I  blame  her;  and  I  am  sure,  if  he  knew 
Hhe  was  ill  and  sull'i 'ring,  his  feeliiii<  would 
Botten,  and  all  might  yet  be  well." 

'■  It  is  unaccountiiiile,"  continued  Uaonl, 
lifter  a  few  moments  of  thou-ht,  "  suili  an 
entire  separii lion  between  two  pco|tk'  who 
lovo  each  other  to  distract icm,  and  for  no 
cause  that  I  can  see.  I  will  go  this  very 
moment,  and  talk  Uhadi  into  reason;  and 
you,  c/itVie,  bring  Aglae  to  her  senses  ;  for 
she  must  bo  a  little  insiine  to  let  trifles 
keep  her  from  a  man  she  is  dyiu::  fin-."  lie 
took  his  hat,  and  went  out,  singing  cheer- 
fully, "Zo  Donna  e  Mobile."  Dear  soul  I 
he  thought  he  could  arrange  it  all  so  ea>ily, 
and  make  them  both  happy  by  his  media- 
tion. 

Before  I  had  time  to  go  down  to  Aglae, 
ho  came  in  more  sadly  than  ho  had  gone 
out,  saying  with  an  air  of  great  dissatisfac- 
tion, "I  went  to  the  Krabassy  to  fmd 
Rhadi ;  and  Uustan  EH'endi  tells  mo  that  In; 
is  at  Ems,  taking  the  waters  for  his  health." 
"What  I  is  ho  ill?"  I  cried  in  surprise. 
"  It  appears  so ;  although  no  one  seems  to 
know  what  has  happened,  yet  all  speak  of 
tho  frightful  and  sudden  change  in  his 
appearance." 

"  When  will  he  return  ?  " 
"  I  could  not  learn.  They  h.avc  heard 
nothing  from  him.  Ho  does  not  write, 
although  his  Iriend  has  asked  for  news  of 
his  hoiUth.  All  seem  surprised,  and  say 
that  he  has  turned  into  a  savage  within  a 
month." 
I  thought  it  best  to  tell  Aglae  of  what 


stand  fiK'li  a 

oil,   iliiiikiiij^ 
diicrilU'c  lor 

iiilikf  liim ;  I 

HlV,  111'  w:i8«!» 

I* 

lis  (•(tnfiili'ni'O 
iviii.:  nitiii-i'; 
n  ii  li>v>'  ili:it 
I    xiii'l  ;    for  I 

I  ooiild  lu.ike 
.\6  as  iiiiuli  ii* 
■c.  it'  lie  Kiiinv 
t'ci'liir^'*  would' 

itimH'd  UmoiiI, 
Liht,  "  siK'li  an 
ro  i)('n|>k'  who 
m,  mill  lor  no 

II  go  tills  vnry 
;o  reason ;  und 
lev  Ki-n^os ;  for 
J  to  li'l  trilli'g 
,yin:j  for."  Ho 
sini^iu'^  clii't'r- 
"  Dour  fonl  I 
it  all  so  i'a>iiy, 
by  his  nieilia- 

iown  to  AiTlad, 
liu  liad  '^ono 
•cat  dissiitisfac- 
iWassy  to  find 
;ells  me  that  lie 
for  his  health." 
led  in  surprise. 
no  one  seems  to 
et  all  spenk  of 
change   in   liis 


cy  have  heard 
oes  not  write, 
cd  for  news  of 
)rised,  and  say 
lavage  within  a 

Aalae  of  what 


»'ff> 


A  woman's  story. 


HT 


Raoul  hud  loarned  n'iip«'nlini;  Rhadi;  »n  | 
that  she  should  not  he  worried  any  lons;.r 
with  constant  expectation  and  di»  >pi»oint- 
inent,  KtrauRe  to  say,  it  seemeil  some 
consoKuion  to  lier  to  know  tlnit  I'.?  .vas  ill; 
for  from  thai  moment  she  seemed  to  rally 
frarn  her  utiir  ilespimilenuy,  so  much  so  as 
to  give  ns  the  hope  that  witli  time  she 
might  overeomoher  unhappy  piv.ssion.  For 
myself  another  and  a  nuire  intimate  sorrow 
liiled  my  lieart.  One  day  llaoiil  came  in 
all  e.xfited.  It  was  the  day  of  \m  fete ; 
and  he  told  mo  that  trouble  was  hrewinB 
between  Franee  and  Prussia,  —  tionhlo  of  a 
BeriouH  nature,  which  would  end  in  wai. 
During  the  same  evening  the  little  scene 
occurred  of  which  I  have  spoken  before, 
when  the  Marseillaise  was  sung,  and  I  was 
go  base  ;is  to  wish  him  to  resign  his  com- 
mission. Thank  I  Jod  I  that  lie  did  not 
listen  to  my  shameful  request ;  for  li>day, 
instead  of  lieing  his  widow,  I  might  be  the 
wife  of  a  coward,  and  a  traitor  t '  his  coun- 
try. Our  dinner  that  day  w.-js  a  very  dif- 
ferent afl'air  trom  that  of  a,  year  before. 
We  had  a  few  friends,  but  it  passed  oil" 
eaiily  enough;  lor  all  were  pre-occui.ied 
with  their  own  fears  and  anxieties,  and  all 
foresaw  dark  and  sorrowful  daysforour  poor 
country.  Ah,  me  I  out  of  the  eight  odicers 
who  dined  with  us  on  llaoul's  thirty-second 
birthday,  there  are  but  two  left;  and  one 
of  them  lost  an  arm  at  Sarrbriick,  and  the 
other  is  blind  from  a  shot  at  Mar«-la-tour, 
Nothing  would  induce  Aglad  to  make  one 
of  our  party  on  that  day.  *'  No,  no,"  she 
Baid:  "it will  remind  me  of  too  much;  anil 
I  cannot  expose  my  folly  to  strangers." 
After  dinner  I  went  down  to  her  for  a  mo- 
ment. It  was  almost  such  an  evening  as 
that  of  a  year  before,  very  warra^and  pleas- 
ant; but  she  lay  wra[)ped  in  a  heavy 
shawl,  weeping,  with  a  faded  rose  crushed 
in  her  fingers. 

As  I  told  you  before,  Raoul  went  back  to 
his  regiment  next  morning,  and  I  was  left 
alone  with  nothing  but  Aglatj's  sorrow  and 
my  own  anxious  thoughts  for  company. 
Every  day  the  political  horizon  became 
more  clouded,  and  tlie  warm  summer  air 


was  heavy  with  ominous  shadow*.  People 
talked  of  nothiii^'  but  war;  bands  of  nd- 
capped  revohiiionists  filled  the  stri'et",  and 
till  Marseillaise  wiis  shouted  in  every  key, 
from  the  shrill  treble  of  childlnxMl  lo  tho 
croaking  bass  of  age  1  knew  tin  time  was 
drawing  near  when  my  saerilirt-  would  be 
retiuired  of  me  ;  and  my  soul  ached  with- 
in me.  Still  I  made  iiu  complaint;  |!)r  I 
had  jjromi-ed  hiiii  to  be  brave  and  strong, 
and  I  did  not  mean  that  he  should  fmd  me 
weaker  than  my  word. 

Aglae  was  in  my  room  one  day,  when  Mar- 
got  brought  in  the  journal ;  and  among  the 
items  I  was  reading  aloud,  I  chaneii!  to 
stumble  upon  the  name  of  llliadi  Kll'endi. 
It  was  a  brief  notice  that  he  had  resigned 
his  position  in  the  ambassador's  umlf,  and 
was  then  taking  the  waters  of  Kins  in  order 
to  re-establish  his  health  before  entering 
upon  his  duties  as  secretary  In  the  minister 
of  fbi-ieign  affairs  at  Constantinople.  I  ex- 
pecleii  Aglae  would  make  .some  exclama- 
tion licfore  I  finished,  but  she  did  not ;  and 
the  only  sign  of  emotion  she  showed  was  a 
sudden  and  death-like  pallor,  which  never, 
left  her  from  that  day.  It  seems  to  me, 
that,  although  she  lived  for  so  long  after, 
she  was  struck  with  death  then.  It  was 
certainly  death  to  whatever  hope  she  might 
have  had  ;  and  she  was  not  the  one  to  live, 
as  another  could,  when  there  was  nothing 
to  live  for. 

"  You  aro  very  calm,"  I  said  a  few  mo- 
ments afler. 

"  It  is  not  calmness,"  she  answered,  "  it 
is  despair." 

Tho  next  day  she  did  not  leave  her  bed, 
nor  for  many  days  after ;  and  I  was  wearied 
and  worn  beyond  expression,  not  only  with 
watching,  but  with  my  anxieties  about 
llaoul,  from  whom  I  could  not  bear  to  be 
separated  at  thafmoment. 

On  the  loth  day  of  July,  a  day  that  Franee 
will  never  forget,  I  went  alone  into  the 
Champs-^lyseea  for  a  little  rest  and  a  breath 
of  fresh  air.  Walking  slowly  and  languid- 
ly toward  one  of  the  most  retired  spots,  —  it 
was  tho  place  where,  one  sweet  night  a  year 
before,  wo  had  watched  the  moon  rise  be- 


88 


A  woman's  btory. 


Iilml   llui   tnH«», —  1  camo  imMi'iily  upon 

Ulimli  I'lliiiili  fitiiii'_'<»n  Diic  (if  till'  cliuli's, 
hit  iini,:^  liilili'd,  lii-i  lu'Uil  ln'iit.iuiil  his  <'yt'M 
llxcd  ii|)(m  11  <lii>tfr  of  M'iiili-t  (tillel  llial 
IiIds-miiuciI  at  liiK  (i'ft.  'I'lif  I  linii'.'c  in  liiiii 
WiiH  K'l  ti'irililt^  liiKt  it  iiliiici>t  Mtartii'ii  iiic 
iiilu  nil  I'Xclaniiitioii.  Ill'  Idcilii'il  twciiiy 
j'i'iii'H  oilier.  lliH  llu-i!  v;,iH  (it'll  ;rniy  iiiillor, 
lii»  I'ycH  »  nki'n  unci  luKtrcli'i's,  liin  iiuniili 
ilniwii  iiii'l  forniwl'ui,  ami  his  wlmlo  ii|i- 
]a'ariiiii'c  ti-.i'  ol'  oiii-  who  lui'l  been  wcll- 
iiiuli  killf'l  in  ii  I.  iTililt'  «'onlli(;t.  So  lont 
was  he  in  tii')n,'lit,  that  he  did  not  si'o  nif 
.aiili  I  Htood  hfllirc  him  imd  niiiil,  "  i1/»n 
ami,  I  am  «lad  to  find  yoii  liore." 

Ilf  Ktarii'd  iVoni  his  mtat  with  tri'inhiin'.' 
mycrin'^s  ;  and  hoini'thiii'^  of  his  olil  Hinili' 
cnruo  to  his  lips  an  hi!  Mui/ed  my  hamlH,  and 
])ri'!<sud  tlu'iii  in  his  with  ii  ('onvulslvc 
clasp, 

I  too!;  ir.s  chair  ;  and  liu  drew  another  to 
my  side,  t\  in;;,  "  I  siaiccly  know  whclher 
to  remain  or  to  ff)." 

•' Yoi!  niiist  ri'iiiaia,"' I  said  firmly.  "1 
Lavu  sninethiii;;  to  say  to  you." 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  spare  nic,"  he 
cried,  eoverim;  his  face  with  his  liands. 

'•  1  eannol,"  I  replied,  tir^cd  to  sjieak  hy 
the  thoii'.dit  of  Aglac's  pale  face.  "  Yon 
mast.  li>ten  to  me  calmly,  llliadi.  A^lae  is 
very  ill ;  she  cannot  live  long;  slie  is  dyin;^ 
for  a  sij^lit  of  you." 

His  hands  lell  ti-oiii  his  face,  and  a  spasm 
ol'  pain  contracted  every  feature;  but  he 
B.iid  coldly,  "  If  Madame  Thevenot  is  ill, 
slie  must  find  some  other  euro.  I  cannot 
see  her  to  save  her  from  a  dozen  deaths." 

The  cruel,  almost  brutal  reply  allocked 
and  disgusted  me  ;  and,  not  knowing  what 
1  saiil,  1  poured  out  all  the  strength  of  my 
indignation  upon  him.  lie  listened,  smil- 
ing haughtily  from  time  to  time  ;  but  he 
never  interrupted  me  until  I  said,  "^You 
are  cruel :  it  is  your  nature  to  be  cruel.  It 
is  a  saying,  '  Cruel  as  a  Turk  : '  you  arc  a 
Turk,  and  you  are  more  cruel  than  any 
other  of  your  nation." 

I  had  scarcely  finished  these  harsh  words, 
betbro  1  regretted  having  said  them  ;  for 
Buch  an  expression  ol  anguish  passed  over 


Ills  face  that  it  iihiiost  made  mo  weep  beforo 
him. 

"  ()  iiimlamn,  madaine!  bo  just  in  yimr 
anger.  Who  has  lieeii  cruel  'I  AVlm  lit 
erutl  'I  Am  I  cruel  liecauso  I  will  not 
pinnae  niysel.  in  tlio  finim  »  atler  having 
Ihmii  (iiice  afniot  eonsumed'i'  Of  what  use 
to  see  lier'i'  She  ciuinol  save  me  from  tor- 
ment and  despair.  Is  it  just  to  ask  mo  to  in- 
crease my  misery  to  culten  hers''  loH'ci  il 
her  all  a  man  has  to'^iK',— luy  heart,  i.y 
soul,  my  lifu  :  she  refused  iliein  ;  uud,  *'<  am 
that  moment,  somelhln'/  was  broken  i"i  bin 
mil  which  is  as  irrepaiablii  .'.i  di-aili.  I  am 
hopi'l'jgsly  ruined:  there  is  nothing  to  bis  . 
dill",  nothing  to  bo  said.  There  is  no 
healing  such  a  wound.  She  must  bear  her 
siillering  lis  i  bear  mine,  while  waiting  for 
death  to  eini  it." 

" 'llien  a  rciMnciliution  is  hopeless?"  I 
asked  tearfully. 

"  A'l  liiipeless  as  ii>j.«i-i\ir.  In  a  few  days 
I  luavo  I'aris  forever." 

"  I !'.'.  iiiglit  von  had  a!iv  e'.y  gone.  A'.'lad 
thought  you  had  gone;  and  since  she  has 
failed  rapidly." 

"  I  had  led,  not  intending  to  return ;  but 
something  brought  me  back  :  perhajis  it  was 
a  desire  to  see  this  spot  again.  I  regret  the 
fate  that  led  you  here  at  this  moment ;  ibr 
dearly  as  I  love  you,  deeply  as  I  reverence 
you,  I  would  rather  have  suli'ertd  tortures 
than  to  have  seen  you.  Ab,  my  God !  if  I 
could  separate  you  from  her,  I  might  still 
have  a  friend  ;  but  I  cannot.  Y'ou  both  are 
so  connected  in  my  memory,  that  I  cannot 
think  of  you  without  thinking  of  her.  I 
cannot  see  you  without  seeing  iier.  For- 
give mo  if  I  am  harsh  and  brutal:  I  ain 
mailB  so  by  pain.  Do  not  try  to  attach  mo 
again  to  you,  —  try  rather  to  forget  mo. 
Adieu  1  adieu  1 "  And  taking  my  hands  in 
a  tight  clasp  ho  pressed  them  to  his  lips, 
and  wet  thein  with  the  tears  that  covered 
his  face.  1  never  saw  such  tears :  they  fell 
from  his  eyes  like  the  great  drops  of  a  sum- 
mer rain.  Poor  Uhadi  1  my  heart  ached  for 
him,  yet  I  could  say  nothing  to  comfort 
him  :  his  passionate  defence  had  silenced 
me.  •  Ho  made  a  convulsive  effort  at  uelf- 


•v^r. 


1 

wi'i'|)  lii'fi)ro 

just  ill  yiiiu- 

\t      Who     i« 

I   will    not 

nt\t,T  Imvliiji 

Orwimt  (ISO 

1110  iVinii  tor- 

» 

iwk  nil!  to  lii- 

k'     lollV-vd 

uy  luurt,   i.y 

1 ;  uiiil.  *''  am 

rokfn  1"!  !ilti 

Km  11.     I  iiin 

( 

Otll'll'^    to    1)1',     . 

riii'it.'   is    no 

met  luiiir  litT 

•              .: 

)  vvitiiiii;!  for 

lopelcss  ?  "  I 

n  a  few  iliiys 

f^ono.    A'iliid 

iiicu  hIiu  has 

N 

)  ri'tuin ;  but 

urli.k|),s  it  waa 

moment ;  ibr 
i  I  roverenco 
iTid  tortures 
uiy  God !  il"  I 
,  I  nii'^lit  8till 
You  liotli  are 
:hat  I  cannot 
ig  of  lier.  I 
ig  lier,  For- 
brutal :  I  am 
'  to  attach  me 
to  forget  mo. 
g  my  liands  in 
n  to  his  lips, 

that  covered 
jars :  they  fell 
rops  of  a  sum- 
leart  ached  for 
Ig  to  comfort 
I  had  silenced 

utfort  at  self- 


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Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


--j-^j  -: -;■  -.-^ --.:  If*'.  -,r, ,  J  ." i,s.";:mS -^-R  ■-■■^<rat"w»»>^W^'f?^rJf?5iS3nS'«;[  f!ii'!i!*«ip« 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


'»iSS*5ii*«: 


^4«Si**«^*ai' 


A  woman's  story. 


89 


control,  dashed  the  tears  from  his  fuce,  gave 
Lis  iiiustaclie  a  savage  twist,  and,  Ijowing 
low  witli  a  forced  and  haggard  smile, he  luit 
mo,  as  I  thought,  forever,  and  walked 
doiwn  the  flower-bordered  path  with  his 
usual  prouil,  firm  step. 

I  sat  there  in  deep  thought  until  the 
lengthening  shadows  warned  me  that  night 
was  drawing  near  ;  then,  unmindful  of  the 
signs  of  some  unusual  event,  I  drew  my 
veil  over  my  tiice,  and  turned  sadly  toward 
home.  Two  olUcers  were  just  in  advance 
of  me  ;  and  their  loud  voices  and  half-fran- 
tic gesticulations  attracted  my  attention.  J 
listened  to  their  words,  and  heard,  "  At  the 
last  he  was  unwilling;  but  the  Chand)er 
forced  him  to  make  the  declaration.  Now 
•we  will  march  straight  to  Berlin."  Then  I 
knew  war  was  declared,  and  what  I  had 
feared  was  actually  come.  T  felt  cold  and 
faint,  and  scarcely  had  strength  to  reach 
my  room.  When  there,  I  closed  my  door, 
and  prayed  as  I  never  had  prayed  before,  all 
the  while  struggling  with  niy  tears  and  my 
own  weak  heart.  At  last  I  arose  from  my 
knees  calm.  My  trouble  was  lifted  from  me 
like  a  great  cloud  that  dissolved  and  drilled 
away,  mingling  with  the  other  prayers  that 
■went  up  to  God  that  night  from  the  anxious 
heart  of  a  nation. 

In  a  little  while  I  went  do\yn  to  Aglae ; 
but  I  did  not  think  it  best  to  tell  her  of  my 
meeting  with  llliadi  Eilendi.  She  was  very 
weak  and  nervous,  and  I  knew  she  had  no 
strength  to  lose  in  useless  excitement.  I 
did  not  even  like  to  startle  her  with  what  I 
had  heard ;  but  knowing  that  she  must  learn 
it  soon,  I  said  as  calmly  as  I  could,  "  Chcrie, 
my  trouble  is  coming.  War  is  declared. 
Raoul  will  go,  and  1  shall  lose  him." 

She  did  not  speak,  but  put  her  arms 
round  my  neck,  and  we  wept  silently  to- 
gether. 

That  same  evening  I  wrote  a  long  letter 
to  my  poor  darling,  often  turning  my 
head,  that  the  tears  might  not  fall  upon  the 
paper.  I  tried  to  write  hopefully  and  en- 
couragingly. I  knew  that  he  did  not  wish 
for  war ;  but  I  also  knew  that  when  he  saw 
it  was  inevitable  he  would  be  among  the 


first  to  give  his  life  for  our  France.    I  poured 
out  my  whole  soul  in  that  letter.     I  em])tied 
my  heart  into  his  :  I  told  him  how  good  and 
patient  I  should  be,  no  matter  what  hap- 
pened.    I  am  sure  it  would  have  southed 
his  poor  heart,  v-hich  must  have  ached  ter- 
ribly at  that  moment :  but  I  have  no  reason 
to  think  that  he  ever  received  it ;  fur,  be- 
fore it  coidd  have  reached  him,  his  regiment 
was  already  en  route  for  the  frontier,  and 
(he  first  news  I  had  of  it  was  from  a  few 
hurried  lines  written  an  hour  before  he  left. 
It  was  the  last  letter  I  ever  received  j)enned 
by  his  hand;  for  he  was  wounded  in  the 
arm,  during  a  skirmish  at  Gcrsweiler,  which 
prevented  him  from  using  his  pen.     Still 
from  time  to  time  I  had  news  from  him 
written  by  one  of  his  oflicers.     lie  was  ear- 
nest, active,  courageous ;  always  at  the  head 
of  his  men  in  spite  of  his  Wound,  which 
must    have   tormented  him   constantly.    I 
never  had  one  moment  of  peace,  I  never  had 
a  night  of  sleep,  after  I  knew  he  had  been 
wounded  again  through  the  shoulder  at  the 
terrible   battle   of  Gravelotte,   where    the 
French  stood  their  ground  and  died,  and  the 
Prussians  stood  their  ground  and  died,  both 
l)y  himilreds;  and  he   never  flinched  nor 
failed,  uniil,  fainting  from  lossof  blood.lie  fell 
from  his  hor8(s  and  was  dragged  to  the  rear 
by  one  of  his  faithful  soldiers.     O  my  God  1 
and  1  not  there.     How  long  he   lay  ill,  I 
never  knew.    When  I  heard  from  him  again, 
he  was  still  fighting,  although  his  right  arm 
was  useless,  beside  General  de  Wimpllen  at 
Sedan.     I  did  not  learn,  until  months  after, 
how  my  Raoul  died.     I  knew  he  was  killed 
at  Sedan,  and  I  never  doubted  that  he  dieil 
bravely ;   but  I  never  knew  how  bravely 
until  an   officer  who  had    survived    that 
dreadful  day  said,  "  Ah,  madame,  your  hus- 
band was  a  hero  !    It  was  he  who  followed 
General  de  WimpfTen  when  he  rallied  his 
tbrlorn  hope,  and  rode  out  of  the  burning 
town  against  the  serried  ranks  of  the  en- 
emy, although  he  know  that  he  rode  into  tlio 
jaws  of  <leath.     I  shall  never  forget  him, 
as  he  looked  back  at  me  and  smiled  just  be  ■ 
fi)re  a  volley  of  Prussian  balls  :  he  smiled 
bravely,  but  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears.     I 


3 


90 


A  WOMAN'S  STORY. 


never  saw  him  again  :  lus  was  swept  away 
in  that  horrible  teiupcst  of  shot,  l)lood,  and 

despair." 

Oil,  inv  husband  1  I  loved  him  as  well  as 
any  woman  ever  loved.  I  loved  him  so 
wJll,  that  I  would  have  suiVvroA  a  thousand 
deaths  to  have  saved  him  irom  one.  I 
loved  him  so  well,  that  life  is  one  long  night 
without  him;  and  yet  I  would  not  have 
saved  him  from  so  glorious  a  triumph,  j 
Tliank  God !  that  wlwn  he  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  Prussians  he  was  not  their 
prisoner,  as  too  many  of  our  soldiers  were. 
No:  his  brave,  sweet  sold  was  free  for- 
ever. 

During  the  terrible  days  that  followed, 
God  and^Aglae  were  my  only  consolations. 
His  pitying  love  sustained  me ;  and  she  for- 
got her  own  sorrow  to  eomfort  me.     Day 
after  day,  night  after  night,  while  the  siege 
guns  roiled  out  their  ominous  warnings,  we 
sat  together  before  the  scanty  fire  in  our 
desohue  house,  where  our  only  guests  were 
cold  and  hunger.     Aglae  might  have  left 
Paris  before  the  gates  were  closed;  hut 
nothing   would   induce   her   to   leave   her 
aunt,  whose  lameness  confined  her  to  her 
bed,   and  whose  weakness    was    so  great 
that  the  least  exertion   might  have  been 
fatal  to  her.    Besides,  I  think  we  were  both 
too  enfeebled  by  our  troubles  to  make  the 
necessary  exertion  for  our  safety.     So,  be- 
fore we  were  aware  of  our  dreadful  posi- 
tion, we  found  ourselves  shut  up  with  thou- 
sands of  others,  to  endure  privations  that 
have  few  parallels  in  the  records  of  history. 
At    first   we    di<l    not  believe,  more  than 
did  others,  that  the   siege  could   last   so 
long;  while  fears  of  cold  and  hunger  were 
the^last  an.xieties  that  disturbed  us.     Still 
they  came,  slowly  but  surely ;  and  there  i 
was  a  day  toward  the  last  of  December,  j 
when  we  sat  and  looked  hopelessly,  each 
into  the  face  of  the  other,  so  cold,  so  faint 
and  weary,  that  life  seeme.l  to  hang  by  a 
very  feeble  threa.l.     Poor  Margot,  as  well 
as  Aglae's  servant,  remained  faithful  almost 
to  the  last ;  going  each  day  for  their  scanty 
rations,    which    they    divided    generously 
with  us  and  the  feeble  old  lady  who  was 


dying  for  nourishing  food.  For  ourselves, 
Agl.ac  and  I,  at  first  we  did  not  care  to  eat 
meat ;  we  were  (piite  satisfied  with  rice  and 
the  little  bread  we  could  get:  b\it  at  Inst 
nature  asserteil  itself,  and  our  emi)ty  stom- 
achs craved  animal  food  incessantly.  I 
grew  v.-ry  selfish,  being  so  hungry ;  and  I 
am  ashamed  to  confess  it,  1  sometimes  ate 
the  little  morsels  that  belonged  t..  Aglae, 
with  the  eagerness  of  a  starving  dog. 

One  morning  Margot  came  in  weeping 
bitterly,  her  cap  and  gown  torn,  her  face 
scratched  and  bleeding,  and  her  whole  ap 
pearance  most  deplorable.  As  soon  as  she 
could  calm  herself  sufficiently  to  speak,  she 
said,  "  O  madamc !  if  we  all  starve,  I  shall 
go  no  more  to  the  bureau  for  our  rations. 
The  canaille  set  upon  me,  beat  me.  and 
drove  me  away,  calling  me  a  servant  of  the 
aristocrats.  I  thought  they  would  murder 
me,  before  a  guard  came  to  my  assistance. 
We  must  starve,  for  I  cannot  go  again.  O 
Mon  Dieu!  when  will  this  end?" 

"God  only  knows,  Margot,"  I  replied, 
with  a  sinking  heart.    "  We  have  borne  it  so 
long,  we  wiil  bear  it  still  longer  without 
complaining.     I,  for  one,  would  rather  die 
than  surrender."    Although  I  was  so  hun- 
.rrv  that  there  seemed  to  be  a  tiger  gnaw- 
Tn-'   at   ray  stomach,  although  Aglae  was 
.rrowing  more  feeble  each  day,  and  the  poor 
old  aunt  down   stairs  was  literally  dymg 
for  nourishment,  yet  I  could  not  say  that  I 
was  willing  to  take  food  from  our  cneuues. 
Margot  had  returned  with  an  empty  bas- 
ket ;°and  all  we  had  in  the  house  between 
us   and   starvation   was   a  little  rice  and 
chocolate,  against  which  our  stomachs  re- 
volted.    There  seemed  to  be  nothing  but 
death  before  us;  and  to  that  eventuality,  I 
[  was  resigned ;   but   something  within   my 
poor  weak  frame  resisted,  fiercely,  the  very 
thought  of   surrender.      So  I   looked    at 
I  Agla'd   as  encouragingly  as  I   could,  and 
!  said,  "  We  will  die  together,  darling,  and  it 
will  not  be  long  before." 

"  No,  it  will  not  be  long,"  she  replied, 

in  a  tone  of  such  patient  resignation,  that 

1  it  touched  my  heart  to  the  quick;   and. I 

I  wept   more  weakly  than  a  stoic  who  had 


For  onrselvos, 
i  not  care  to  oat 
I'd  with  rice  ami 
yd:  but  at  last 
our  eiiii)ty  stoin- 

incessantly.      I 

hun|j;ry ;  am'  I 
I  sometimes  ate 
longed  t.,  Aglae, 
irvin^  dog. 
ame  in  >veeping 
n  torn,  her  lace 
d  her  whole  aj)- 
Aa  soon  as  she 
itly  to  epeak,  she 
dl  starve,  I  shall 

for  our  rations, 
le,  beat  me.  and 

I  a  servant  of  the 
.>y  would  murder 
to  my  assistance, 
not  go  again.  O 
send?" 

irgot,"  I  replied, 
c  have  borne  it  so 

II  longer  without 
Avould  rather  die 
igh  I  was  so  hun- 
be  a  tiger  gnaw- 
liough   Aglae  was 

day,  and  the  poor 
as  literally  dying 
)uld  not  say  that  I 
from  our  enemies, 
th  an  empty  bas- 
,he  house  between 
a  little  rice  and 
our  stomachs  rc- 
to  be  nothing  but 
that  eventuality,  I 
cthing  within   my 
I,  fiercely,  the  very 
So  I   looked    at 
y  as  I   could,  and 
her,  dariing,  and  it 

long,"  she  replied, 
nt  resignation,  that 
I  the  (piiek  ;  ami .  I 
m  a  stoic  who  had 


A  woman's  story. 


91 


just  resolved  to  die  should  weep.  After  a  '  reached  Aglad  and  brought  her  hastily  to 
moment  she  said  soothingly,  "  Let  us  be  the  stairs.  "  Here  is  meat !  hei-e  is  meat !  " 
calm  :  bodily  sull'ering  is  not  so  terrible.  I  j  and,  scarcely  knowing  what  I  did,  1  tore  off 
Lave  lived  through  greater  pain  :  and  I  have  '  a  mouthful  of  the  raw  horse-meat  that  lay 
one  thin"  to  be'  thankful  for,  that  is,  that    on    the    top,    and    devoured    It    eagerly. 


Rhadi  is  not  suffering  with  us ;  he  is  safe, 
and  he  will  never  know  of  our  distress. 
And  perhaps  when  he  learns  I  am  dead,  he 
will  forgive  mo,  and  think  kindly  of  me." 
Then  she  burst  into  tears,  and  we  wept 
passionately  together.  She  had  not  spoken 
hia  name  for  a  long  while ;  neither  had  I, 
for  my  terrible  anxieties  and  sorrows  had 
driven  him  almost  from  my  thoughts ;  still, 
I  knew  by  that  outburst,  that  death  was  a 
consolation  she  desired  as  much  as  I  did. 
There  would  have  been  nothing  dreadful 
in  death  then  ;  but  one  cannot  die  of  hun 


Aglae  seized  the  basket,  and  explored  its 
contents,  crying  and  laughing  like  a  child, 
while  she  enunerated  them, — one-half  of  a 
chicken,  a  length  of  sausage,  a  box  (if  sar- 
dines, a  pot  of  beef  extract,  a  slice  of  bacon, 
and  the  cut  of  horse-meat  I  still  held  tender- 
ly in  ray  hands.  Ah,  my  God!  these  little 
things  '.,'ave  us  life  and  hope.  What  treas- 
ures !  what  joy  !  We  had  wished  to  die  : 
we  had  thought  we  could  die  rather  than 
vield.  But  in  that  moment  we  did  not  see 
our  bleeding  eoiuitry :  we  saw  before  U9 
food ;  we   were   starving,  and  we  thought 


ger  while  there  is  the  least  thing  left  to    only  of  eating.     The  poor  old  aiuit  found 
sustain   life ;   and  the  rice   and  chocolate,  !  strength  to  take  a  large  basin  of  the  beef 


which  we  could  not  resist,  did  that,  much  to 
our  regret. 

Aglae's  servant  had  gone  with  tlip  ambu- 
lance corps ;  it  was  useless  to  remain  and  die 
with  us ;  Margot  was  too  weak  and  fright- 
ened to  leave  the  house ;  our  last  resources, 
the  rice  and  chocolate,  were  gone ;  and  yet 
we  could  not  die. 

One  morning,  driven  by  the  keenest 
pangs  of  hunger,  I  went  down  to  the  jwrte, 
which  had  not  been  opened  for  some  days, 
thinking  I  might  see  a  guard  who  would  be 
willing  to  sell  his  rations  for  the  last  hun-. 
dred  francs  wc  had  in  the  house.  As  I 
approached  the  door,  some  one  rang  the 
bell :  it  was  a  strange  sound  then ;  and  I 
undid  the  bolts  with  eager,  trembling  fin- 
gers, thinking  always  that  relief  had  come. 

Almost  before  I  was  visible,  a  hungry- 
looking  man  thrust  a  small  basket  into  my 
hands,  and,  turning,  ran  swiftly  toward  the 
Champs-El i/sc'es,  without  having  said  a 
word.  I  was  so  surprised,  that,  instead  of 
opening  the  basket,  I  stood  staring  after 
the  man,  who  I  was  sure  joined  some  one 
standing  behind  a  fountain  on  the  rond- 
point.     At  that  momenta  faint  odor  of 


extract  economically  diluted,  and  a  slice 
of  the  chicken,  which  she  devoured, 
although  she  was  so  weak,  with  the  eager- 
ness of  a  hungry  laborer.  Margot  made 
a  delicious  ragout  of  the  horse  meat ;  an<l 
we  feasted  sumptuously,  forgetting  in  our 
selfishness  those  who  were  starving  around 
us.  Neither  did  we  fjuesiion  as  to  where 
it  came  from  :  we  only  knew  we  had  it,  and 
that  was  enough. 

There  was  something  in  that  process  of 
slow  starvation  that  hardened  and  brutal- 
ized the  best.  Can  we,  then,  wonder  that 
the  degraded  and  ignorant  became  like 
savage  animals  during  that  dreadful  ordeal  ? 

We  were  bo  hungry  that  we  were  not 
prudent,  and  devoured  almost  in  one  day 
the  food  which  must  have  cost  a  small  for- 
tune, besides  no  end  of  trouble,  to  procure  ; 
so  in  a  little  while  wo  were  suffering  again, 
and  worse  than  belbre,  because  of  the  sud- 
den stimulant  our  systems  had  received 
from  the  (piantity  of  meat  we  had  eaten  in 
so  short  a  time.  In  the  very  depths  of 
our  distress  another  basket  came  from  the 
same  mj-sterioiis  source ;  and  although  the 
meat  was  of  the  poorest  quality,  and  tho 


meat  from  the  basket  attracted  my  atten-  \  smallest  quantity,  we  welcomed  it  as  a  sal- 
tion ;  and,  tearing  off  tho  cover,  I  cried,  i  vation  from  the  keenest  suffering.  I  often 
"  Mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu ! "  in  a  voice  that  i  thought  the  most  foolish  things  in  regard 


92 


A  WOMAN'S  STORY. 


to  this  titnelv  md.    Every  one  wax  moru  or 
Ics  suporstit'ious  then ;  and  tlic  feelin-^'  that 
the   dear   spirit  of  my    llaoul  interceded 
with  (Jod  in   my  behalf,  twk  the  firmest 
possession  of  my  mind  ;  for  from  what  other 
source    could  assistance   come  ?   who  was 
there    in   that    doomed    city    who    cared 
whether  we  lived  or  died?  and  how  was  it 
possible  at  such  a  time  for  any  one  to  pro- 
cure more  than  enou-h  for  his  own  needs? 
Three  times  life  and  hope  came  to  us  in 
this  mysterious  way  ;  three  times  we  were 
saved 'from   the  keenest   an;j;uish   by   this] 
An^el  of  Mercy,  and  still  it  seemed  that 
we  "were  set  apart  for  the  sacrifice,  with 
hundreds  of  others  who  fell  uneomplainingly 
at  that  harvest  of  woe ;  for  one  morning 
A.rlac  came  up  at  <lawn  of  day  with  wild 
eves  and   drawn  lips,  crying  in  piercing 
tones    "Aunt   is    dead  1    she   died  alone, 
while  I  slept  like  a  beast.     She  died  from 
hun<'er ;  and  I  shall  go  insane,  or  die  before 
ni-ht,  if  I  do  not  have  food."      We  ha.l 
caU'u   nothing  but   a  little  bread  for  six 
d.iys.     Ulargofs  hunger  had  overcome  her 
fid'elitv,  and  she  too  had  joined  the  ambu- 
lance'corps;  so  we  two  women  were  alone 
in  this  great,  desolate  house  with  our  dead. 
AH  I  could  do  was  to  pray  silently  while  I 
said,  "  Be  patient,  dear  1  perhaps  God  will 
send  us  something  to-day."     Then,  crying 
like  a  sick  child,  I  followed  her  down   to 
the   room  of  her  aunt,   who  now  lay   so 
placid  and  smiling,  — she  who  had  hungered 
and  suffered   but  a  few   moments   before. 
Already   she  had  eaten  of  the    bread   of 
life  ;  and  her  shrunken  old  face  was  full  of 
contentment    and    satisfaction.      While   I 
looked  at  her,  something  sublime  entered 
iny  soul ;  and  I  felt  how  little  are  the  ills 
of  lii'e  when  a  moment  of  death  can  cure 
them  forever.     So  I   drew    Aglac   to   my 
heart,  and  sat  down   patiently  beside  the 
dead,  waiting  for  the  desired  consoler,  who 
reiused  to  come  to  us.     We  were  ready, 
we  were  willing  ;  and  yet  we  could  not  die. 
Then  one  of  those  dreailful  spasms  of  hun- 
ger came  upon  me,  and  I  started  up  with  a 
new  strength   born  of  my  pain ;  drawing 
Acrlao  after  me,l  cried,  "  Come,  we  will  go 


into  the  streets,  wo  will  go  to  the  bureau ;  the 
people  will  pity  us  ;  we  are  women;  we  are 
starving:  let  us  go  while  we  have  strength. 

"No,  no,"  moaned  Aglae,  clinging  to  the 
c.ld  hand  of  her  aunt.  ''  1  am  too  weak : 
let  me  die  here  in  peace." 

Our  misery  had  stupefied  us :  we  had  sat 
all  these  hours  by  the  dead  woman,  and 
had  made  no  preparation  for  her  Surial. 

«'  It  is  useless  to  refuse :  you  must  go  with 
me  to  find  an  undertaker,"  1  said  with  de- 
termination ;   "we  cannot  leave  the   poor 
ibody  unburied;  let  us  make  the  elfort.    1 
I  am  too  miserable  for  fear;  and  we  may  as 
well  die  in  the  streets  as  to  die  here  alone. 
She  followed  me  reluctantly ;  and,  wrapping 
ourselves  in  our  thickest  mantles,  we  crept 
out  shiveringly  into  the   desolate  streets. 
The   cold  wind   pierced   us  through ;   the 
wild-eyed  men  and  women  appalled  us  ;  but 
still  we  struggled  on  with  other  starving 
creatures  toward  the  barrier  that  kept  the 
frenzied  crowd  away  from  the  bureau.     1 
shall  never  Ibrget  the  curses,  the  cnes,  the 
moans,  of  hun.lreds  of  poor  beings  whoso 
endurance    had    reached    the    last    lunit. 
Death  was  written  on  the  skeleton  forms 
of  the  women,  dogged  determination  on  the 
sullen  faces  of  the  men.    «  We  must  sur- 
render," 1  said  at  last,  "or  the  Prussians 
will  have  only  a  city  of  dead  for  their  con- 

*^""  My  God,  my  God  I "  cried  a  poor  wretch 
close  in  my  car,  "two  of  my  children  have 
starved,  and  I  shall  lose  my  last  if  I  cannot 
iret  a  morsel  of  meat  to-day."    The  crowd 
pressed  closer  and  closer  to  the  barrier; 
and,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  Aglae  and  1  were 
carried  on  with  the  others,  only  to  be  dnv- 
en  back  by  the  stern-faced  guards.     As  the 
morsels  of  meat  were  passed  out  to  those 
who  were  fortunate  enough  to  be  near,  the 
si.dit  of  it  seeme<l  to  iuturiate  those  who 
could    not    reach    it,    »«    the    smell    of 
blood  is  said  to  atlect  wild  aniuials.    Uowls, 
shrieks,  yells,  and  groans  arose  from  a  bun- 
dred  throats,  and    a  hundrv^d    emaciated 
hands  were  stretched  forth,  some   iinplor- 
UvAy,  some  threateningly.  Suddenly  a  voice 
1  that  sounded  like  the  shrill  ring  of  a  clar- 


tothoburean;  the 
•1!  w onion;  wc  are 
wi!  liiive  8twnt;th." 
at',  clini^ing  to  tlio 
"  1  am  too  weak  : 

etl  us :  wc  hail  sat 
(lead  woman,  and 
1  for  her  Surial. 
;  you  must  '^o  with 
r,"  1  said  with  dc- 
ot  leave  the   poor 
nake  the  effort.    I 
ir ;  and  we  may  as 
3  to  die  here  alone." 
itly  -,  and,  wrapping 
;  mantles,  wc  crept 
le   desolate  streets. 
d  us  throu'^h;   the 
icn  appalled  us  ;  but 
vith  other  starving 
irrier  that  kept  the 
i-oni  the   bureau.     I 
lurses,  the  cries,  the 

poor  beings  whoso 
cd    the    last    limit. 

the  skeleton  forms 
letermination  on  the 
in.  "  We  must  sur- 
t,  "or  the  Prussians 
f  dead  for  their  con- 

"  cried  a  poor  wretch 
of  my  children  have 
se  my  last  if  I  cannot 
to-day."    The  crowd 
loser  to  the  barrier; 
ves,  Aglae  and  1  were 
liers,  only  to  be  driv- 
aced  guards.     As  the 
3  passed  out  to  those 
nough  to  be  near,  the 
3  iuturiate  those  who 
,    as    the    smell    of 
wild  animals.    Howls, 
,ans  arose  from  a  hun- 
a  hundriid    emaciated 
d  forth,  some   implor- 
a|rly.  Suddenly  a  voice 
i  shrill  ring  of  a  clar- 


A  woman's  story. 


93 


ion,  shoute<1,  "  En   avant  1 "      A  strange 
thrill  went  through  me  as  I  turned  and  saw, 
at  the  head  of  a  frantic  mob,  the  haggard 
face,  wild  eyes,  and  fierce  white  teeth  of 
Rhadi    Effendi.      llefore  I  was  fully  con- 
scious of  what   I  had  seen,  before  1  could 
express  my  astonishment,  he  had  leaped 
the  barrier,  and  seized  the  hamper  from 
which  an  oflicur  was  dispensing  the  rations ; 
then  with  a  triumphant  cry,  and   a  wild 
bound,  he  sjirang  forward  almost  into  the 
arms  of  Aglae.     A  guard  darted  afler  him : 
there  was  a  gleam  of  steel,  followed  by  a 
red  stream,  a  cry  of  pain,  a  deathly  pallor; 
he  looked  around  like  a  tiger  at  bay,  the 
food  he  had  risked  his  life  to  obtain   fell 
from  his  relaxing  hold,  and  he  sank  help- 
less into  our  outstretched  arms.     The  con- 
fusion,   the    struggles,    the    shrieks,   were 
appalling.     A  dozen  guards  surrounded  us, 
and  forced  back  the  mass  of  human  beings 
who  were  fighting  frantically  for  possession 
of  the  hamper  that  had   fallen   in   their 
midst.     Aglae  never  released  her  hold  on 
Khadi.  She  had  Ibrgotten  her  weakness  and 
hunger  ;   and  her  face  was  full  of  courage, 
as  she  said  to  an  olHcer,  "  For  the  love  of 
Christ,  do  not  let  him  die  I  "     Something  in 
her  voice  touched  the  heart  of  the  man : 
he  ordered  a  stretcher,  and  they  laid  Rhadi 
on  it.     Aglae  held  one  cold  hand  and  I  the 
other,  the  guard  surrounded  us,  the  crowd 
fell  back,  and  we  turned  toward  the  Avenue 
Montaigne.     Ghastly  forms  carried  by  on 
stretchers  were  a  common  spectacle  then, 
and  attracted  but  little  attention.     Indeed, 
the  sight  of  death  was    rather   welcome 
than  otherwise,  because  there    remained 
one  less  to  feed. 

The  night  that  followed  seems  to  me 
now  like  a  ghastly  dream.  The  guards 
were  full  of  pity  for  us,  showing  their  sym- 
pathy by  sending  us  a  surgeon,  an  under- 
taker, and  what  food  they  could  procure. 
Ah  1  how  terrible  was  our  condition  when 
these  were  our  greatest  needs  I 

All  through  the  night  Aglae  held  the  un- 
conscious form  of  Rhadi  in  her  arms,  and 
the  blood  from  his  wound  stained  the 
whiteness  of  her  breast.    I  think  hunger 


and  fear  had  turned  her  brain  ;  for  she  did 
not  seem  to  understand  that  ho  had  been 
wounded,  and  was  dying.  She  talked  to 
him  incoherently  of  the  past,  never  sfieiik- 
ing  of  the  dreadful  present.  She  smiled 
on  liim,  she  I'.isscd  his  closed  eyes  and  cold 
lips;  she  buricil  her  face  in  his  h;iir,  and 
wet  it  with  her  tears  ;  an<l  then,  se<.'ing  how 
motionless  he  was,  she  implored  him  to 
smile,  to  speak  :  but  there  was  no  smile,  no 
speech ;  and  yet  he  lived. 

There  was  no  iire  on  the  hearth,  there  was 
but  the  faintest  liglit  in  the  solemn  room. 
The   winter  wind   screamed    and  moaned 
around  the  windows,  making  a  fierce  treble 
to  the  hoarse  bass  of  the  cannonade,  as  the 
bombardment  was  continued  without  inter- 
mission.    The  skies  rained  shot  and  shell. 
Famine    and    despair    preyed    upon    the 
doomed  city,  while  I  sat  there  looking  with 
dull  anguish  on  the  ghastly  ftiee  of  Khadi,  the 
insane  gesticulations  of  Aglae.     Suddenly 
there    started    up    before    me,   in    iiitiful 
contrast,  a  picture  of  that  radiant  night 
when  they  stood  together  on  the  balcony, 
slie  looking  at  the  rose  in  her  fingers,  ho 
looking  at  her,  his  brilliant  face  iieaming 
with  happiness ;  and  my  llaoul  was  near 
me,  full  of  tenderness,  cheerful  and  con- 
tented;  the  voices   and  laughter  of   our 
friends,  the  bright  light,  the  soft  summer 
air,  the  flowers,  the  music  from  the  gardens 
below,  —  my  God  I  my  God  I  how  all  have 
changed  1    My  husband  dead,  my  Franco 
dying,  my  friends  dying  ;  no  light,  no  fire, 
no  hope  I     Was  it  the  same  world  V  was  I 
the  same  woman  who  had  loved,  who  had 
been  loved,  and  who  had    been    happy  Y 
There  was  no  hunger  gnawing  at  my  heart 
then ;  and  yet  I  wept,  and  wished  that  I 
were  dead. 

When  the  dawn  came,  pale  with  fear  at 
the  sight  of  death  and  despair,  Rhadi  raised 
his  heavy  lids,  and,  recognizing  the  face 
bending  over  him,  he  smiled  that  rare,  sweet 
smile,  that  makes  sunlight  in  my  memory 
even  now,  and  murmured  softly,  "  My  dar- 
ling, my  adored !  am  I  with  thee  at  last?  " 
Then,  as  his  mind  cleared,  a  slight  shade 
passed  over  his  face,  and  he  said,  "  I  have 


■mm^^i 


J^ 


94 


A  woman's  story. 


never  loft  you ;  1  Iwvc  watchod  over  you 

tlirou-li  :ill ;   1  wi^^lu-il  to  ifuttW  with  you  ; 

I  rravc  nil  to  profun!  tooil  i'oi-  you  ;  I  trii-il  by 

every  iiiei\iis,  every  Hiierilke,  but  at  the  last 

I  i';ule(l.     1  knt.'W  you  were  starving,  mid  the 

8iy,ht  of  the  i'oo.i   luiKllened  me.     Ah  !  1 

reineniher:    I  leaped  the  barrier;   T  seized 

it  for  you  ;  1  hehl  life  for  you  in  my  hand  ; 

then  8()uiethin;,'   jiiereed   me   through    the 

Iwart,  anil  I  fell ;  but  it  is  over  now  ;  the 

siege  is  ended ;  wo  are  no  lon;^er  hungry  •, 

wu^iire  happy,  my  beloved,  we  are  hajipy  !  " 

Aglae  pressed  him  tightly  to  her  heart, 

and  said  over  and  over,  "  Yes,  yes,  we  are 

happy  :  there  is  no  hunger  no  pain  ;  we  are 

happy." 

Then  I  heard  him  fay,  like  one  talking 
in  sleep,  "  Cruel  1  she  said  1  was  cruel ;  and 
jot  I  have  given  my  life.     1  loved  her  as 
a  Turk  loves,  —  onee  anil  former  ;  through 
pain,  through  death.     How  long  the  night 
has  been  !  but  now  my  sun  t^hines,  my  glo- 
rious Sim  that  shone  upon  my  birth  ;  ami  he 
will  set  no  more.     I  see  his  light,  and  1  am 
happy."     After  that  all  was  silent.     The 
guns  had  ceased  their  sullen  roar;- the  wind 
had  sunk  to  rest ;  and  1  slept,  overeonie  by 
weakness  and  livtigue.     When  I  awoke,  the 
sun  was  shining   into  the  room.    It  was 
high   noon.     Jlhadi    slept,    but    never    to 
awaken.      Aglae    slept    with    her    cheek 
presHcd  against  his  hair,  and  her  .awakening 
was  terrible. 

On  the  2Sth  of  January,  while  all  Paris, 
relieved  by  an  armistice  just  signed  and 
the  prospect  of  speedy  peace,  buried  the 
wounds   in   their  hearts   and  the  dead  in 
their  graves,  I  Ibllowed  all  that  remained  of 
Rhadi  EtVcndi  to  the  cemetery  of  Pere-la- 
Chaise.     Can  you  wonder  that  1  was  a  real 
mourner,  as  1  thought  of  what  had  passed 
since  the  night  when  Kaoul  brought  him  to 
us.  so  haiulsomo,  so  strong,  so  brilliant,  so 
lull  of  life  and  hope  V     The  dull  gray  face, 
in  the  coflin.  that  I  had  looked  upon  for  the 
last  time,  bore  little  resemblance  to  the  ex- 
pressive features  that  fairly  dazzled  me  on 
that  happy  evening.     He  must  have    suf- 
fered terribly  beibre   death  came   to    his 
relief;   for  his  beautiful  hair  was  almost 


white,  and  his  face  was  ploughed  with  line!'. 
I  think  his  pmir  heart  was  broken  Ion  j  be- 
fore it  was  pierced  with  the  cold  steel  of 
the  brutal  guard.  It  must  have  been  ii 
welcome  stroke  that  healed  the  deeper 
wound,  and  gave  him  jieace  at  last. 

AllhoM-h  it  has  been  nearly  two  years 


since  Aglae  awoke  to  find  Uhadi  dead  in 
her  arms,  she  has  never  left  her  room,  never 
ceaseil  to  weep  for  him,  never  ceased  to 
pray  for  the  peace  of  his  soul ;  until  four 
days  ago,  the  last  pr.ayer  was  said,  the  last 
tear  wiped  away,  and  the  penitent,  purified 
spirit  went  to  join  his.  Only  yesterday  I 
saw  her  laiil  by  his  side,  not  far  from  the 
tomb  of  Abelard  and  lleloise  ;  and,  in  spite 
of  my  sorrow,  there  wont  up  from  my  heart 
a  prayer  of  thanksgiving  that  her  waiting 
was  over,  that  they  were  united  forever. 

I  am  very  lonely  now  she  is  gone :  my 
rooms  seem  full  of  shadows  and  sighs. 
Already  scarcely  a  trace  rem-ains  of  the 
terrible  conlliet  through  which  we  have 
passed;  The  trees,  replanted,  wave  in  the 
Cliamps-Eli/ae'es  the  flowers  blossom,  the 
sun  shines,  the  voice  of  strangers,  mingled 
with  the  strains  of  gay  music,  are  heard  as 
of  yore ;  only  here  and  there  stands  a  black- 
ened ruin,  a  mutilated  statue,  a  crumbling 
wall.  The  heedless  passers,  the  triumph- 
ant conquerors,  the  careless  strangers,  do 
not  see  the  graves  in  the  green  bosom  of 
our  country,  nor  the  graves  in  the  sad  hearts 
that  beat  under  the  black  robes  of  many 
mourners  who  go  about  the  streets. 

Outwardly  with  me  nothing  is  changed. 
I  still  sit  in  my  room  that  Raoul  arranged 
for  me,  listening  for  a  voice  and  a  step  that 
I  shall  hear  no  more.  Strangers  are  mov- 
ing already  into  Aglac's  vacant  apartment. 
They  will  eiit  and  drink  and  laugh  in  the 
rooms  where  the  poor  old  aunt  starved, 
where  Rhadi  died,  where  Agla6  mourned, 
and  will  know  nothing  of  what  has  passed 
there.  It  is  well  that  walls  are  mute,  and 
can  never  tell  what  they  have  seen. 

All  that  remains  to  me  of  the  dear  friend 
who  shared  my  bitter  sorrows  is  a  small 
desk  she  put  into  my  hands  an  hour  before 
she  died.    It  contains  a  miniature  painted 


I 


ighed  with  line?, 
irokon  hn\i  Ix- 
10  cold  stL'i'l  vil' 
!<t  havo  been  a 
lud  the  ilecpcT 
i>  at  last. 
K'ai-ly  two  years 

Uhadi  (K'ait  in 

her  rooiii,  never 
never  eeased   to 

soul;  until  four 
vas  said,  llio  last 
penitent,  purified 
Only  yesterday  I 
not  far  from  the 
)ise  ;  and,  in  spite 
up  from  my  heart 
that  her  waiting 
united  forever, 
she  is  gone:  my 
idows  and  sij^hs. 
i  remains   of  the 

which   we   havo 
nted,  wave  in  the 
vers   hlossoui,  the 
strangers,  min;;led 
usic,  are  heard  as 
•re  stands  a  black- 
atue,  a  crumbling 
icrs,  the  triumph- 
less  strangers,  do 
)  rrreen  bosom  of 
is  in  the  satl  hearts 
ck  robes  of  many 
he  streets. 
)thin<5  is  changed. 
It  Raoul  arranged 
ice  and  a  step  that 
Strangers  are  mov- 

vacant  apartment. 

and  laugh  in  the 

old  aunt  starved, 
•e  Aglad  mourned, 
)f  what  has  passed 
alls  are  mute,  and 
r  have  seen. 
le  of  the  dear  friend 
sorrows  is  a  small 
mds  an  hour  before 
i  miniature  painted 


A  woman's  story. 


95 


for  Uhadi,  some  jewels,  a  faded  rose,  and  a 
package  of  which  I  havo  spoken  before. 
Therein*  nolliingof  value  in  that  crumpled 
paper  ;  but  the  wealth  of  the  whole  world 
could  not  buy  it  from  me,  — a  small,  white 
glove,  a  plain  hanilkerchief,  a  sprig  of  with- 
ered aillet,  these  are  all ;  but  they  are 
stained  with  his  heart's  blood.  The  sur- 
geon ii)und  them  on  his  breast  when  he 
dressed  his  wound.  The  glove  and  alllet 
Aglad  wore  the  night  of  our  dinner ;  the 
handkerchief  was  the  one  Rhadi  used  to 
wipe  the  wine-stains  from  her  dress.  Ah, 
mo  1  how  the  faint  Oriental  odor  about  them 
reminded  me  of  that  moment  when  the 
glass  fell  from  his  fingers,  scattering  its  crim- 
son fluid  on  the  three  who  are  now  gone. 
I  felt  then  that  it  was  an  omen  of  ill.  I 
am  sure  of  it  now ;  for  did  not  the  cup  of 
his  happiness  tall  and  shatter  l)eti)re  it 
reached  his  lips?  and  did  not  the  red  wine 
of  his  life  stain  her  heart  ?  I  pressed  those 
mournful  relics  of  the  saddest  and  sweetest 
scenes  I  had  ever  known  to  my  lips  with 
many  a  sigh,  and  laid  them  away  reverent- 
ly among  my  dearest  treasures. 

There  are  times  when  I  regret  bitterly 
that  I  ever  saw  Rhadi  f^tfendi,  or,  .-ather, 
I  should  say,  that  Aglad  ever  saw  him  ; 
for,  had  it  not  been  for  that  fatal  passion, 


she  might  have  lived  many  hapjiy  years, 
allliough  her  |)liysician  says  that  liiT  sys- 
teni  was  so  weakened  iiy  the  pi'ivalinns  >he 
snU'ered  during  the  siege,  that  nothing  could 
prolong  her  life.  They  talk  well,  and 
sometimes  wif'ly ;  but  I  believe,  if  Rliiidi 
had  lived,  she  would  have  bei'n  here  to-day, 
and  I  should  not  be  alone.  After  the  ])nii]f 
she  had  of  his  love  and  devotion,  I  lliink 
she  would  havo  married  him  without  fear; 
lor  he  nuist  have  had  a  noble  heurt  an  I  a 
faithful  nature  to  love  as  lie  loved,  ami  to 
endure  what  ho  endured  by  reuiainiiig  in 
Paris  through  the  siege,  that  he  might  be 
near  her  to  save  her  from  suH'ering.  He 
must  havo  gone  hungry  himself  to  have  li'd 
lis  ;  and  he  must  have  made  almost  super- 
human efforts  to  procure  the  food  which  I 
thought  could  only  have  come  from  (Ind. 
Well,  did  it  not  come  from  (lod  ihrou.di 
him  V  and  was  not  Raoul  glad  in  heaven  to 
know  that  some  one  on  earth  was  caring 
for  usV 

Poor  Rliadi  Etfendi !  to-day  the  grass 
grows  greiMi  on  his  grave;  and  already  the 
vines  creep  from  it,  ami  spread  their  licntle 
shade  over  the  sod  that  covers  Aglae.  He 
was  passionate,  proud,  and  unrelenting. 
He  was  a  Turk ;  but  was  ho  cruel '/  I 
leave  you  to  be  his  judge. 


\ 


'\ 


u 


fc^a^ 


JiiA^Vimi 


% 


MRS.  GORDON'S  CONFESSION, 


<♦> 


"  What  !  eleven  o'clock,  and  I  still  sitting 
hero  (lrc!iiiiin<j  V  Why,  I  am  inHane,  when 
I  have  no  end  of  work  beforo  me,"  said 
the  Uuv.  John  Henediet,  as  he  started  from 
his  conif'urtable  chair  before  n  <;lowin^  ^Vate, 
and  looked  around  his  luxurious  study 
with  a  most  irresolute  j^lanee.  It  is  true 
that  he  had  much  to  do ;  but  the  brij,dit  fire, 
the  quiet  room,  and  his  own  reverie,  were 
more  inviting  than  the  chilly  vestry  where 
the  wardens  of  the  church  were  then  assem- 
bled to  debate  a  matter  of  imjjortance  that 
required  his  attendance. 

For  some  reason  this  usually  active  pas- 
tor was  very  indolent  on  this  bright  Octo- 
ber morning ;  and  instead  of  starting  off,  as 
he  sjiould  have  done  after  his  exclamation, 
he  dreamily   let   his  watch   slip  into   his 
pocket  again,  and  himself  settle  back  into 
his  chair,  while  a  pensive  and  thoughtful 
expression,  that  betokened   some    interior 
pro-occupation,  fell  again  over  his  fine  face. 
It  was  his  thirty-fifth  birthday;  and,  inter- 
mingled with  his  other  thoughts  and  mem- 
ories, many  scenes  of  his  past   life  came 
vividly  before  him.     It  seemed  to  him  less 
than  twenty  years  beforo  that  he  had  been 
a  boy  in  a  New-England  village,  guiding 
the  plough  with  one  hand,  while  he  held  a 
hook  in  the  other ;  or,  lying  under  the  elms 
during  the  harvost^noons,  he  had   studied 
while  the  other  laborers  slept,  —  a  delicate, 
thoughtful   boy,  orphaned  and  friendless, 
bound  to  a  hard  master,  who  had  no  sym- 
pathy for  his  hungry,  craving  heart.   Loving 
knowledge,  and  thirsting  for  it  as  a  flower 
thirsts  for  rain,  he  had  drunk  greedily  every 
drop  that  he  could  obtain,  no  matter  from 
7 


what  source.     What  a  drurlgery  his  youth 
had  been  I     None  but  God  hail  known  of 
his  sorrows,  his  privations,  his  poverty,  his 
stru^'glcswith  "  low  birth  and  iron  fortune." 
Hut  he  ha<l  conipiered  most  noi)]y.     Self- 
taught  and  sell-made,  he  now  stood  (irmly 
on  the  topmost  height  that   his  ambition 
had  always  aspired  to.     Entirely  through 
his  own   e.xertions,  ho  had   gone   through 
college,  and   graduated  with  every  honor. 
lie  had  passed  his  theological  examination 
with  marked  success,  and  directly  after  his 
confirmation  had  been  called  to  a  thriv- 
ing church  in  a  small  but  wealthy  town  in 
one  of  the  New-England  States.     There 
he  had   labored    successfully   for    several 
years.     Then  a  trip  througli  Europe,  and 
a  year  in  a  German  University,  had  fitted 
him  for  a  wider   sphere,  which  was  soon 
opened  to  him.     A   natural   eloquence,  a 
sincere  nature,  a  fervent  piety,  a  profound 
intelligence,  and  a  tender,  generous  heart, 
united   to  an   almost  faultless    person,   a 
manner  dignified,  refined,  and  gentle,  made 
him  one  of  the  most  popular  men  of  his 
time.     He  was  the  friend  of  the  poor  and 
suffering,  the    fearless    defender    of    the 
oppressed,    the    eloquent    denouncer    of 
hypocrisy  and  gilded  vice,  as  well  as  the 
welcome  guest  in   the   most  refined  and 
elegant  circles.     For  three  years  he  had 
presided  over  one  of  the  wealthy  and  fash- 
ionable churches  of  New  York.     His  salary 
was  almost   princely;  and,  in  comparison 
with  the  poverty  of  his  youth,  his  present 
prosperity  seemed  magnificent.     His  house 
was  furnished  richly,    liis   servants  were 
devoted    and    faithful,    his    congregation 
97 


"I^SaSgJBS 


iJ^^'^MJstjSijjS.w-^^fei^^-^JiJSl'" 


98 


MUR.   OOnnoN'S  CONFKaBIOV. 


i    r 


adorcil  liiiii,  ami  h\*   rliiiiih   was   iiIwuvk 
fillcil  witli  iiitcHi,'cnt,alt('iiilvi'  wornlilpiMT!*. 
Whiil  iiKirf  coiilil  lie  ilcNirc  V     Siinly  lii^ 
lini'H  liiul  lallfii  ill  |ili':wiiil  pliU't'H,  ami  lie 
hail  a  ^(Hxlly  licrita'^t'.    Yot  on  tliln  OrtobtT 
inoriiiii',',  an  lu^  nat  niti-inir  licfiirc  Ii'im  fire,  In- 
WHS   not   altdHctliiT   (•(Hitciitcil ;     ami     lor 
wliat  rcnKon?     IIo  wan   not  roiiscioiii)  of 
liaviii^i  lifi'ti  r<'mi»H  in  any  iliity.     Ilisncr- 
nion  of  till-  pri'vioiiH  day  li.nl  lii-iiii  liHtciicil 
to   with   tliu    ciosi'dt    nttt-ntion ;    h«    hail 
prviU'litMl  tVoin  his  hoii!  to  hi"  linmlnMld  ol" 
iioaii-rs  ;  he   hail   cniplii'il   IiIh   lu-art   into 
thcirH,  ami  ho  knew  liy  tin-  oarnctit  faces 
and     rajit    divotion    of   many,   that    his 
words  had  not  fallen   on   insensible   ears. 
lie  had  been  very  aetive  iltninf^  the  jiast 
week   in   his   eharitable  work.     He   could 
renieiiiber  with  iileasiiro  tho    gratituile   of 
deveral  ))o<)r  siiflirers  whom  he  had  raised 
from  the  depths  with  his  timely  aid   and 
encoiira'^enient.     A  volume  f)f  his  sermons 
which   had   just   been  published  had    met 
with  marked  siicecss.     The  most  captions 
critics  had  dealt  gently  with  him,  and  the 
most  just  had  found  nothiii';;  to  condunin  in 
the  dainty  little  Iwok  that  lay  on   nearly 
livery  study  table.     The  day  before  he  had 
asked  two  thousand  dollars  of  liis  con;j;re^n- 
tion  for  mission-work,  and  they  hail  given 
him  three.   Every  thing  that  ho  had  under- 
taken  prospered;   success  crowned  every 
effort.     Then,  what  cause  had  he  for  dissat- 
isfaction ?    One  might  naturally  think  that 
he  had  none,  and  yet  his  thoughts  were  not 
entirely  of  a  pleasant  nature.    In  the  first 
place   he   was  discontented  with  himself. 
He  feared  that  his  prosperity  was  spoiling 
him,  that  he  was  becoming  less  earnest, 
lees  8elf-<lenying,  less  active  in  his  Master's 
work.     Was  he  not  one  of  those  who  had 
come  out  from  the  world?     Then,  was  it 
right  that  he  should  spend  so  many  hours 
in  fashionable  circles,  listening  too  often  to 
the    senseless    twaddle    of    manffiuvering 
mothers    and  ambitious  daughters,  when 
there  were  human  woes  to  relieve,  weeping 
eyes  to   dry?     Was  it  not  his  duty   to 
spend  that  time  in  seeking  for  his  Master's 
lost  sheep  ?    Was  it  right  for  him  to  live 


in   luxury  when  thousands  were  hiinsTV  ? 
In  fact,  was  it  ri;.'ht  for  him  to  ppeml  hin 
youth,  his  hcallli,  his  sfien'.'th.in  the  feeble 
and    encrviiliiig   routine   of  a    fashinniiblu 
church,  when  then!  were  wide  Ken*  to  lie 
sailed,  wildernesses  to  be  pcni'tratcd,  biirn- 
ingsands  tobetrixldcii.ihat,  the  Lord's  truth 
might  be  sounded  in  the  ears  of  all  nations? 
Was  it  not  his  dream  onci-,  — the  dream  of 
his  siidering  boyhood,  —  to  become  a  mis- 
sionary, a  pioneer  of  the  gosfM^l.ii  staiidard- 
beuriM-  in  (Jod's  army '!     And  here  he  wasi 
at  thirty-five,  settleil  down  in  silken  ease,  in 
gilded  jirosperity,  tiie  tlatteri'd  leader  of  a 
l'a^hionablu  religion,  —  a  thing  that  in  his 
younger  days  he  would  not  have  believed; 
yet  he  had  drifted  into  it,  he  had  thought 
that  it  was  his  placid :  this  morning  he  felt 
that  it  was  not.     Something  stirred  within 
his  heart,  the  memory  of  his  boyhood  came 
strong  u]ion  liim  ;  he  felt  a<iain  the  damp 
air  of  (he  early  dawn  when  he  leaned  from 
his  window  to  catch  the  first  rays  of  light 
upon  his  book  ;  the  hot  breath  of  the  suin- 
mei'  nixjn,  while  he  lay  under  the  trees  and 
read;  the  free,  wild  winds  that   frolicked 
about  him  as  he  drove  the  cattle  over  the 
hills;  the  scent  of  the  sweet  hay  that  ho 
had  mowed,  and  turned,  and  raked,  drifted 
across  his  face,  and  with  it  the  vision  of  a 
little  blue-eyed  girl,  the  only  thing  that  ho 
had  ever  loved,  that  had  ever  loved  him  in 
those  dreary  days.     His  eyes  filled  with 
tears  when  he   remembered   how  he   had 
carried  her  home  in  his  arms  from  tho  hay- 
field  one  hot  July  noon,  her  feverish  cheek 
pressed  close  to  his,  her  little,  hot  hands 
clinging  around  his  neck.     And  then  the 
great    loneliness    in    l\is    life   when    she 
sickened  and  died.     He  had  loved  nothing 
so  well  since.    "  If  she  had  only  lived,"  he 
had  said  so  many  times;  and  this  morning 
he  said  it  again  with  a  he.'ivy  sigh.    "Ah  !  I 
was  better  and  stronger  then.     What  am  1 
now  ?     What  sliall  I  become  in  a  few  years, 
if  I  live  this  life  of  ease   and   luxury?" 
Tlien  another  subject  intruded  itself,  not  a 
new  one,  for  he  had  often  thought  of  the 
same   thing  before.     Why  he   had   never 
married.      There  were  dozens  of  lovely 


.-..iiiiiia  I  -11  ^-js^— ^.  • 


iiiKiinitK  wort!  liiincrry  V 
lor  liiin  U>  p|)(>iii|  hiH 
s  ctl-cii'.'tli,  ill  till!  (ccMu 

itilH-  lit'  It  t!l»llil)||||lllu 
WiT(^    Wirlo    I<CIIH    to    llO 

to  111'  iicni'tr^iti'ij,  liiirn- 
■M.iliiii,  llic  Lonrw  truth 
iliccars  lit"  111!  iiiitic»n(i? 

II  diici',  — thi^  ilrniiiii  (if 

—  to    llCCOIIKt    II    llliM> 

t'  lilt!  (^osfM'i,  II  MtamluriU 
And  liiTi'  lit!  wiiK) 
liown  in  ."ilkrii  uiihi-,  in 
11-  IIiUtiTi'd  Ic.uiur  of  a 
,  —  a  thinij  thiit  in  Inn 
iilil  not  Imvo  l)(«lii'V(Ml ; 
nto  it,  lio  liiid  tlioiii^lit 
' ;  this  luornin;^  ho  felt 
imctliinj;  Ntirrt.il  within 
ry  of  his  lioyhooil  (•uin« 
lu  felt  a'iiiin  tlie  dump 
i'n  when  he  ii-ancd  fi-oin 
1  thu  first  riivs  of  lij^ht 
hot  Iircath  of  thu  sum- 
lay  iind«!r  tlio  triM's  and 
d  winds  that    frolickiMl 
»ve  the  rattli!  over  the 
tho  sweet  hay  that  ho 
rned,  and  raked,  drifted 
1  with  it  the  vision  of  a 
,  the  only  thin'^  that  ho 
t  had  ever  loved  liiin  in 
His   eyes   filled  with 
nembered   how  he   had 
I  his  arms  from  the  liay- 
oon,  her  feverish  eheek 
s,  her  little,  hot  hands 
i  neck.     And  then  the 
n    l^is    life   when    she 
He  had  loved  nothin;.' 
she  had  only  lived,"  ho 
mes;  and  this  morning 
1  a  heavy  8ij;h.    "Ah  !  I 
i^er  then.     AVhat  am  I 
I  become  in  a  few  years, 
)f  ease,  and   luxury?  " 
:t  intruded  itself,  not  a 
1  often  thought  of  tho 
Why  he   had   never 
nrere  dozens  of  lovely 


Mn».  oonnoN'8  coNFRsaiov.  99 

Ijirlii  in  liin  church,  rich,  ac('om|ili'<h<'d,  and  i      Mr.  Kencdict'    heart   had    never  liernrn 

lasliionalily  jiioiis,  who  imiki'd  at  him  with  beat  iiiori'  ijiiirkly  in  the  pretence  nf  a  wo- 

piil't,   bcscecliiiii;   eyes,  and    nho    iiirl    him  man  :  now   it  Hceiiied   as    tlmu'.di  he  wiiiiM 

with  delicate  and  tiallerin.;  nitcntioii ;  but  siillbcate;  and  he  could  s<arcii  control  lilni- 

none  of  tlii-m  had  toiU'lu'il  bis  ht'art,  where  si'lf  cnou'jh  to  say  calmly,  "  I  am  very  ^lad 

dwelt  always  iiii  ideal  wijmaii,  the  reality  if  my  advice  can   be    of  any  use    to  voii ; 

of  which  he  miitlit  never  liiul,  —  a  stiinii,'  but  first  tell  nie,  pray,  wlioiii  I   have    the 

noble  coul,  a  stately  fiiturc,  with  the  iiino-    hon if  iiddressin;;." 

cent  face  of  a  child.  "My  name  is    (iordim,  —  Mrs.  rmrd'in. 

Tlii-re  was  a  tap  at  the  stiuly-clnor,  and  I  am  a  straic^cr  in  Ni'w  York.     Yi^sterdav. 

liis  servant,  cnterin;;,  said,  "  .\  lady  to  see  by  chance,  I  drilleil  into  your  church  :  yo;ir 

you,  sir:   shall  I  fliow  her  in?"  sermon  interested  nie,  and   awoke   in  my 

Mr.   Heneilict   started   like    one    from    a  heart  a  lunfi-sliimbcriii'i  desire  to  do  some- 
dream,  and  rcplie'l  inditl'erently,  '•  A  lady:  thing  for  others.     I  havi'  plenty  of  leisure; 


what  name  ?  " 

"  She  didn't  give  her  name,  sir;  she  said 
yon  didn't  know  her." 

"Very  well,  iho  may  come  In."  He 
glanced  at  his  watch,  and  thought  of  his 


and  I  can  spare  something  from  my  income, 
if  you  will  kindly  tell  me  how  I  am  to  he- 
gin." 

"  With   pleasure  ;   but  flrnt,  if  it  is  not 
presuming,    may   I    ask   you    a   few   (pies- 


vestrymen  waiting  impatiently  for  him.  "  I  tioiis  V  " 
hope  she  will  not  detain  nie  long,"  ho  said,  "  Certainly,"  with  a  little  touch  of  grave 
pushing  back  his  hair,  and  raising  hinisidf :  reticenee  in  her  voice  which  Mr.  Heneilict 
to  a  more  dignified  position.  Then  his  '  did  not  fail  to  notice.  Still  ho  was  pos- 
cyes  wandered  toward  an  cxipiisite  boii-  ,  sessed  with  as  strong  a  ilesire  to  know 
(piet  of  rare  flowers  that  stood  near  him ;  something  of  this  woman  as  though  his 
a  rosebud  was  drooping,  it  did  not  touch  '  whole  destiny  was  to  be  left  in  Ikt  hands, 
the  water;  he  leaned  forward  to  arrange  it, !      "Pardon  me,  if  I  am  too  curious.     Aro 


thinking  still  of  the  little  (lower  that  had 
perished  so  early,  when  the  door  opened 
and  the  visitor  entered.  Rising,  he  went 
toward  her.  Something  in  her  face  star- 
tled him,  and,  almost  trembling,  he  gave 
her  a  chair.  It  was  his  ideal  woman  who 
stood  before  him,  —  a  beautiful,  stately  fig- 
ure, with  the  innocent  face  of  a  child.  At 
a  glance  he  understood  that  she  was  rich- 
ly but  simply  dressed,  and  that  she  had 
the  ease  and  self-possession  of  one  accus- 
tomed to  the  refinement  of  life.  She  took 
the  offered  chair,  bowing  gracefully,  and 
said  with  a  slight  tremor  in  her  voice, 
"  Pardon  my  intrusion :  my  errand  is  a  very 


you  an  American  by  birth  ?  " 

"  I  am,  but  I  have  liverl  for  a  long  time 
abroad." 

"I  thouaht  so  from  your  manner  and 
speech.  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  that 
you  were  a  stranger  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  acquaintances,"  she  replied 
a  little  sadly.  "  I  am  living  at ,"  men- 
tioning a  jirivate  hotel  of  the  greatest  re- 
spectability ;  "  but  I  have  not  met  any  of 
the  ftimilies  residing  there.  I  suppose  they 
look  with  some  distrust  on  an  entire  stran- 
ger." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  it  is  often  so," 
he  replied  hesitatingly,  for  he  scarce  knew 


simple  one,  and  will  not  detain  you  long,    what  to  say;   "but  you  must  not  remain 


I  have  a  small  amount  to  use  in  charity :  I 
wish  you  to  tell  me  how  I  may  expend  it 
to  the  best  advantage."  Tlie  soft,  gray- 
blue  eyes  looked  at  him  steadily  as  she 
spoke ;  and  there  was  a  grave  earnestness 
about  the  mouth  that  had  appeared  so 
childishly  sweet  when  she  entered. 


without  friends :  your  life  will  be  very  lone- 
ly. Cannot  I  introduce  you  to  some  whom 
I  prize  very  highly,  and  who  are  most  at- 
tentive to  strangers  Y  " 

"But  you  know  no  more  of  me  than 
others  do,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile;  "  and 
I  have  no  credentials  of  respectability." 


i    i 


100 


MRS.   GORDON'S  CONFESSIOX. 


A  puddcn  fear  seizpil  his  heart.  After 
all,  who  was  this  woman  that  interested 
him  in  such  an  unusual  manner?  She 
was  married.  Was  she  a  widow  V  lie 
was  <leterinined  to  know,  ?o  ho  said  rather 
awkwardly,  "  And  your  husband?  " 

'  I  have  no  husband."  She  rci)lie(l  so 
coldly  and  curtly  that  Mr.  Benedict  felt 
that  lie  had  touched  an  uni)leasant  subject, 
and  he  could  have  punished  himself  for 
his  want  of  tact.  "  I  am  a  rude  brute  to 
(luestion  her  in  this  way,"  he  thought; 
"but  I  am  determined  to  know,  and  I  must 
know." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence ;  then  she 
raised  her  eyes,  and,  looking  him  in  the 
face,  she  said  earnestly  and  frankly,  "  Mr. 
Benedict,  I  have  come  to  you  because  I 
need  a  friend.  I  am  respectable ;  there  is 
not  the  slightest  stain  upon  my  character; 
but  circumstances  over  which  I  have  no 
control  have  isolated  me  somewhat  from 
society.  1  feel  that  I  must  say  this  to  you 
to  explain  my  lonely  position.  I  need 
friends :  will  you  take  me  on  my  own  rec- 
ommendation, and  present  me  to  your  fam- 
ily, your  church  ?  " 

"I  have  no  liimily,  madam;  but  my 
church,  I  am  sure,  will  welcome  you  warm- 
ly-" 

«  No  family,"  she  repeated,  with   some 

surprise  in  her  voice;  then  a  faint  flush 
spread  over  her  face,  and  she  arose  to  leave. 
«  Perhajis,  when  you  know  of  something  in 
which  I  can  be  of  use,  you  will  be  kind 
enough  to  inform  me,"  she  said,  giving  him 
her  card.  "  I  fear  I  have  intruded  too  long ; 
thanks  for  your  kindness,"  and  she  turned 
toward  the  door. 

Mv.  Benedict  followed  her  in  a  tremor 
of  agitation.  He  did  not  wish  her  to  leave 
so  abruptly;  he  had  a  great  many  more 
things  to  say,  but  he  could  not  detain  her ; 
so,  as  he  opened  the  door,  he  only  murmured 
the  usual  conventionalities  aboui  being 
very  happy  to  be  of  use ;  and,  before  he  was 
(juite  conscious  of  what  he  was  saying,  she 
had  bowed  her  "  Good-morning,"  and  was 
gone.  For  a  moment  he  stood  quite  still 
where  she  had  left  him,  thinking,  "  I  have 


always  dreamed  of  such  a  woman  :  how 
lovely  !  what  a  soul  in  her  face !  what  truth 
in  her  eyes,  and  yet  a  mystery  1  Who  is 
she  ?  I  nuist  see  her  again  :  I  must  know 
more  of  her.  Then  he  took  his  hat  me- 
chanically, for  the  vestry  meeting  intruded 
itself  into  his  dazed  mind.  He  '.new  it  was 
long  past  the  hour,  an<l  that  nothing  could 
be  determined  until  his  arrival:  but  ho 
might  as  well  have  remained  in  his  study ; 
for  his  usually  clear  mind  was  incapable  of 
frrasping  the  most  simple  detail.  So,  after 
an  hour  lost  in  useless  discussion,  the  mcet- 


.ng  adjourned  until  another  day. 

Mrs.   Gordon  hastened  down  the  steps, 
into  the  clear  October  sun*liglit,  with  a  very 
heavy  shadow  on  her  face.    "  Heavens  ! "  she 
thought.    "  What  a  mistake  I  have   made  ! 
What  will  he  think  of  me  ?    AVhy  did  I 
take  it  upon  myself  to  suppose  ho  was  mar- 
ried ?    Because  clergymen  at  his   age   al- 
most always  are  ;  and  so  I  thought  he  was. 
Now  see  what  my  desire  for  action  has  1('<1 
me  into!     Why  was  I  not  contented  to  sii 
in  my  room  alone,  and  let  my  lifi;  llowon  as 
it  would,  without  any  effort  to  change  its  cur- 
rent? I  feel  the  need  of  friends:  I  thought 
that  I  might  find  them  in  his  church.     I 
thought  he  was  a  great,  noble  soid,  above 
the  httle  suspicions  and  follies  of  society, 
who  would  accept  me  for  what  I  appeared, 
and  take  me  into  his  family  and  church  as 
a   lonely,   sorrowful  woman  should  be  re- 
ceived by  those  who   profess    to    follow 
Christ's  example.    But  he  has  no  wife,  no 
family  1  What  will  he  Uiink  of  me  ?  To  say 
the  least,  it  was  most  indelicate  to  present 
myself  in  that  manner  to  an  unmarried  man. 
And  he  will  never  know  that  I  thought  him 
married.     Perhaps  he  will  think  it  was  a 
plan  of  mine  :  but  I  am  foolish  ;  he  is  too 
noble  for  that ;  I  will  think  no  more  of  it.    I 
presume  by  to-morrow  he  will  scarce  remem- 
ber that  he  ever  saw  me.     He  will  not  need 
me :  there  must  be  plenty  to  do  his  charity 
work.    I  will  go  back  to  my  lonely  life  that 
this  absurd  idea  has  disturbed  for  a  little 
while.    Ah,  my  God,  what  a  destiny  1   no 
home,  no  friends,  wandering  from  place  to 
place ;  treated  with  suspicion  and  indiffer- 


t 


such  a  woman  :  how 
1  lii>r  face  !  what  truth 
a  mystery !  Who  is 
r  ii<^ain  ;  I  must  know 

he  took  his  hat  me- 
3try  niL'cting  intruded 
iiind.  He  '.now  it  was 
id  that  notliiiij;  could 

his  arrival :  but  ho 
Mnained  in  his  study ; 
iiind  was  incapable  of 
nple  detail.  So,  after 
s  discussion,  the  meet- 
nother  day. 
encd  down  the  steps, 
r  sun*liglit,  with  a  very- 
face.  "  Heavens  ! "  she 
iiistake  I  have  made  ! 
:  of  me?    Why  did  I 

0  suppose  ho  was  niar- 
Tyinen  at  his  a^a  al- 
d  so  I  thought  he  was. 
isire  for  action  has  led 

1  not  contented  to  sii 
id  let  my  life  (low  on  as 
effort  to  change  its  eur- 
l  of  friends  :  I  thought 
liem  in  his  church.  I 
reat,  noble  soul,  above 

and  follies  of  society, 
e  for  what  I  uppeared, 

I  family  and  church  as 
woman  should  be  rc- 

ho  profess  to  follow 
But  he  has  no  wife,  no 
le  til  ink  of  me  ?  To  say 
St  indelicate  to  present 
er  to  an  unmarried  man. 
:now  that  I  thought  him 
he  will  think  it  was  a 
[  am  foolish  ;  he  is  too 

II  think  no  more  of  it.  I 
)w  he  will  scarce  remem- 
r  me.  He  will  not  need 
plenty  to  do  his  charity 
ck  to  mjf  lonely  life  that 
18  disturbed  for  a  littlo 
)d,  what  a  destiny  !  no 
andering  from  place  to 
I  suspicion  and  indiffer- 


MR8.   OOUDON'S  confession. 


101 


ence,  if  not  with  cruelty  and  scorn ;  and  for 
no  fault  of  Miy  own.  Grace  Gordon,  lliere 
is  nothiu','  for  you  but  [)atienee  anil  coura'^e." 
She  had  intended  to  banish  the  recollec- 
tion of  this  visit ;  to  think  no  more  of  it ;  to 
forget  that  she  had  been  so  foolish  as  to 
present  herself  before  this  stranger,  with 
the  double  hope  that  she  might  do  somi' 
{{ood  to  others,  and  receive  some  gooil  for 
herself:  but  she  coidd  not,  slie  was  so 
angry  ami  mortified  in  thinking  of  the 
wrong  construction  that  might  b'j  put  ujion 
an  act  in  itself  most  innocent  of  any  sche- 
ming. Sne  was  very  proud,  this  ])oor,  lone- 
ly, friendless  woman  ;  and  her  isolation 
was  owing,  in  a  measure,  to  her  pride.  Tlie 
second  day  after  calling  on  Mr.  IJenedict, 
she  sat  alone  in  her  room,  copying  with  ex- 
quisite skill  the  "  Melancholy  "  of  Uomenico 
Feti  tVoni  an  ivory  miniature.  It  represents  a 
woman  kneeling,  her  left  hand  supporting 
her  head,  while  she  considers  a  skull  atten- 
tively ;  at  her  feet  is  a  palette,  brushes,  and 
the  fragment  of  a  statue ;  behind  lier,  on  a 
stand,  are  a  globe  and  a  clepsydra;  in  tlic 
back-ground,  ruins  are  seen.  Whether  it 
was  the  subject  of  her  picture,  which  was 
certainly  suggestive,  or  hi  r  vexed  feelings, 
I  know  not ;  but  more  than  once  she  wiped 
away  the  hot  tears  as  she  continued  her  work. 
She  was  surrounded  with  the  evidences  of  a 
rare  and  refined  taste  ;  copies  made  by  her 
own  hand  of  Rapliael,  Fra  Angelico,  and  Pe- 
rugino,  with  carved  Florentine  frames,  or- 
namented the  walls.  The  wing-footed 
Mercury  floated  from  a  bronze  pedestal ;  a 
marble  copy  of  the  Farnese  Minerva,  and 
another  of  the  bcautilul  Capua  Psyche, 
rested  on  antique  brackets  ;  a  vase  of  choice 
flowers  stood  near  lier ;  and  books  bound 
in  old  Roman  and  Venetian  lay  on  the 
tables.  A  cabinet  piano  stood  open,  and  one 
of  Beethoven's  sonatas  lay  upon  it  as 
though  she  had  just  left  it.  It  was  evident 
this  morning  that  her  heart  was  not  in  licr 
work.  It  did  not  seem  to  please  her ;  for 
she  corrected  it  impatiently  here  and 
there,  and  then  looked  at  it  critically  with 
knitted  brows.  At  last  she  laid  down  her 
palette,  went  to  her  piano,  played  a  few 


bars,  and  then  walkecl  restlessly  around  the 
room,  taking  up  dill'cn'nt  ulijecisand  laying 
them  down  again  witii  no  deliniie  ])iir{Mi>c. 
Finally  she  selected  a  book,  and  sen  led 
herself  to  read,  when  a  tap  at  the  diMir 
startled  her,  and  a  servant  entered  wiili  a 
card.  She  took  it,  and  read,  "  IJev.  ,Im1iii 
Benedict."  "Ah!"  she  said  with  a  litlj.' 
surprise  in  her  voicis  "you  may  show  hiiu 
in." 

Mr.  Bf'.'dict  entered  her  presence  willi 
more  diseoaiposure  than  he  liked  to  ac- 
knowledge to  himsell'.  Siie  reei'iveil  him 
kindly,  but  he  thought  a  little  coldly,  and 
said,  when  he  was  seated,  "  I  am  very  glad 
to  see  you.  I  feared  you  would  not  have 
time  to  comply  with  niy  reipiest  so  soon  ;  lor 
I  may  conclude,  may  I  not,  that  you  have 
found  something  for  aie  to  do  V  " 

"I  have,"  he  replied,  smiling;  "  l)ut  to 
tell  you  so  is  not  entirely  the  object  of  my 
visit.  I  wish,  if  you  will  allow  me,  to 
become  better  ae(|uainted  with  you." 

"  Yon  are  very  kind,"  she  returned  with 
a  slight  flush.  "  It  is  |)ieasant  to  find  any 
one  who  desires  my  aetpiaintance." 

"  Are  you  not  a  little  in  fault  yourself?  " 
he  inijuired  gently,  as  he  glanced  round 
the  room.  "  Do  you  not  find  these  com- 
panions more  interesting  and  absorbing 
than  your  fellow-creatures  V  You  are  an 
artist ;  you  live  in  an  ideal  world  of  your 
own ;  you  keep  aloof  from  the  common 
interests  of  life,  and  then  complain  because 
they  do  not  come  to  you." 

"  Oh,  no  I  you  arc  mistaken,"  she  returned 
warmly.  "  I  am  not  morbid  nor  exclusive. 
I  love  my  fellow-creatures,  and  court  their 
society.  They  have  wounded  me  cruelly 
sometimes,  yet  I  love  them  all  the  same. 
My  books,  my  music,  my  jiaintings,  are  dear 
to  me,  it  is  true ;  but  I  should  devote  the 
smaller  portion  of  my  life  to  them,  if  I  had 
some  human  interest  to  occupy  the  other 
part." 

Mr.  Benedict  remained  silent  for  a  few 
moments.  His  heart  was  full  of  the  desire  to 
know  all  of  this  woman's  history,  to  have 
her  whole  past  laid  before  him  ;  but  lie  dared 
not  question  her,  and  he  felt  that  her  con- 


r  IT  -TfTM-tttm-TI  «»i  M-Bly 


11 


102 


MRS.   GORDON'S  CONFESSION. 


fidence  would  not  be  voluntary.     At  last   make  friends  when  one  ia  situated  as  I  am 


ho  said,  noticinj^  that  her  face  was  very 
sad  and  anxious,  "  I  hope  later,  when  you 
know  nie  better,  you  will  speak  more  ireely 
of  your  sorrows." 

"  Perhajjs  so,  when  I  have  proved  your 
friendship ;  but  at  present  you  must  accept 
me  without  e.\planation." 

"  I  will  do  80  Ireely,"  he  replied  wilh 
deep  earnestness  in  his  tones,  "  contented 
to  wait  if  I  may  hope  in  time  to  win  your 
confKlence.  I  have  known  what  it  is  to  be 
friemUess,  misundertooil,  and  neglected.  Do 
not  fear  to  trust  me :  if  you  are  unhappy 
let  me  try  to  make  you  happier." 

The  tears  started  to  her  eyes ;  and  she 
said  in  a  voice  tremulous  with  emotion, 
"  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  spoken  so 
freely  to  any  one,  a  long  time  since  I  have 
listened  to  such  kind  words ;  and  I  have 
been  so  hungry  for  sympathy."  Then 
she  made  an  etfort  to  regain  her  composure, 
and  added,  with  forced  animation,  "  But 
tell  me,  please,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  When 
am  I  to  begin  my  work,  and  where  V  " 

"  I  have  thought  over  the  matter  seri- 
ously," replied  Mr.  Benedict;  "and  it 
seenjs  to  me  that  the  most  feasible  plan  is 
for  vou  to  become  a  member  of  our  Char- 
itable Association.  In  that  way  you  can 
make  the  ac(iuaintance  of  the  ladies  of  my 
congregation.  The  society  meets  once  a 
week  in  the  vestry  of  the  church.  To-mor- 
row is  the  day.  If  you  will  come,  I  will 
introduce  you  to  some  of  my  best  friends, 
anil  bespeak  a  warm  welcome  for  you." 

"  Th»nk  you,"  she  said  gratefully. 
"You  are  kind  to  think  of  that;  but  are 
you  sure  that  I  can  be  of  any  use  there, 
where  so  many  are  interested  ?  Would  not 
some  work  alone  be  belter  for  me?  One 
poor  family,  for  example,  whose  children  I 
might  teach  and  clothe." 

"Under  the  circumstances,  I  think  not; 
because  in  that  case  you  will  be  as  friend- 
less and  isolated  as  now.  I  want  that 
you  should  make  friends  who  will  under- 
stand and  appreciate  you." 

"  Yotn-  intention  is  kind,"  she  said  with 
some  hcBitatioti ;  "  but  it  is  not  so  easy  to 


Women  do  not  receive  each  other  with 
open  arms  when  there  is  the  least  mystery 
or  circumstance  unexplained." 

"  But  I  shall  present  you ;  and  I  hope 
the  confidence  they  have  in  me  will  estab- 
lish you  on  the  right  footing." 

"  You  are  very  good.  You  mean  to  do 
what  is  best  for  me  ;  and  you  think  this 
is  best  because  you  do  not  know  what  I 
have  suttered  before  iu  trying  to  win  the 
confidence  of  society  :  therefore  I  pray  you 
to  be  careful  how  you  ex])ose  me  to  fresh 
insults."  She  spoke  rapidly,  with  Hushed 
cheeks  and  angry  eyes;  then  she  added 
more  gently,  after  a  short  silence,  "  But  I 
will  trust  you  ;  I  will  make  one  more  ellbrt ; 
and  if  I  fail  now  I  shall  never  try  again." 
"  Let  us  hope  for  the  best,"  said  Mr. 
Benedict  kindly.  "  Say  you  i/ill  come  to- 
morrow, and  that  will  be  the  first  step  to- 
ward a  better  state  of  things." 

"  I  will  come,  then,  with  the  determina- 
tion to  put  aside  my  pride,  which  is  a  ter- 
rible enemy  to  my  peace ;  and  I  will  be 
verv  gentle  and  patient,  and  submit  to  be 
suspected  at  first  if  I  may  but  win  confi- 
dence afterward." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  speak  so  sensi- 
bly. Weil,  thuii,  at  one  o'clock  :  I  shall  be 
there  to  meet  you." 

"I  shall  not  fail,"  she  replied.  Then 
they  shook  hands  like  old  iriends  ;  and  Mr. 
Benedict  went  away  more  interested  and 
more  puzzled  than  before.  She  is  young  and 
lovely  ;  she  is  alone  and  needs  friends.  I 
would  stake  my  life  on  her  goodness, 
on  the  purity  of  her  character,  and  I  am 
seldom  deceived :  then  why  should  1  not 
befriend  her  ?  "  Suddenly  his  own.  years, 
his  celibacy,  his  position,  the  construction 
that  the  world  might  put  upon  his  conduct, 
all  came  into  his  mind.  "  Nevertheless,"  he 
thought,  "  if  I  can  do  any  thing  to  make 
her  happier,  I  shall  do  it." 

The  next  day  Mr.  Benedict  entered  the 
vestry-room,  where  the  ladies  were  assem- 
bled, chattering  like  magpies  over  a  table 
covered  with  garments  of  every  size,  color, 
and  material  that  could  be  used  for  charita- 


malu 


I 


MRS.   GORDON'S  CONFESSION. 


103 


lie  18  situated  as  I  am. 

live   each  other   with 

■e  is  the  least  mystery 

[plained." 

ent  you;   and  I  hope 

have  in  me  will  estab- 

footing." 

)od.   You   mean  to  do 
I ;  and  you  think  this 

do  not  know  what  I 
J  in  trying  to  win  the 
:  therefore  I  pray  you 
DU  ex])ose  me  to  fresh 
3  rapidly,  with  Hushed 
syes ;   then  she   added 

short  silence,  "  But  I 

make  one  more  ellbrt ; 
shall  never  try  again." 
)T  the   best,"  said  Mr. 

Say  you  ■».'ill  come  to- 
ill  be  the  first  step  to- 
rf  things." 
n,  with  the  determina- 

pride,  which  is  a  ter- 

peace ;  and  I  will  he 
lent,  and  submit  to  be 
'  I  may  but  win  conii- 

2ar  you  speak  so  sensi- 
;  one  o'clock  :  I  shall  bo 

1,"  she  replied.  Then 
ke  old  friends  ;  and  Mr. 
ly  more  interested  and 
lefore.  She  is  young  and 
e  and  needs  friends.  I 
life  on  her  foodness, 
ir  character,  and  I  am 
:hen  why  should  1  not 
uddenly  his  own.  years, 
isition,  the  construction 
it  put  upon  his  conduct, 
ind.  "  Nevertheless,"  he 

do  any  thing  to  make 
I  do  it." 
r.  Benedict  entered  the 

the  ladies  were  assem- 
ce  magpies  over  a  table 
jnts  of  every  size,  color, 
ould  be  used  for  charita- 


ble purposed.  Singling  out  an  elegant- 
looking  elderly  lady  with  a  sensible  benev- 
olent face,  lie  said,  bowing  smilingly  to  all 
as  he  spoke,  "  Will  you  come  with  me  for 
a  moment,  Mrs.  Wynton?  I  should  like 
to  introduce  you  to  a  friend." 

Mrs.  Wynton,  who  was  president  of  the 
society,  laid  down  the  report  she  was  about 
to  read,  and  followed  her  handsome  pastor 
willingly. 

As  they  crossed  the  vestry,  Mr.  Benedict 
said,  "  The  lady  for  whom  I  wish  to  be- 
speak a  kind  welcome  is  a  friend  of  mine, 
and  an  entire  stranger,  having  lived  abroad 
for  a  number  of  years.  She  wishes  to  en- 
gage in  charity  work.  I  hope  you  will 
receive  her  cordially,  and  make  her  feel 
quite  at  home  among  you." 

"  How  can  you  doubt  it,  Mr.  Benedict  ? 
Are  not  your  Iriends  always  welcome  to 
me?" 

Mr.  Benedict  thanked  her  warmly,  as  he 
opened  the  door  of  his  study  where  Mrs. 
Gordon  was  waiting. 

Nothing  could  be  more  friendly  and  cor- 
dial than  was  Mrs.  Wynton's  reception  of 
the  stranger.  Much  to  the  satisfaction  of 
Mr.  Benedict,  she  at  once  took  Mrs.  Gor- 
don by  the  hand  ;  and,  leading  her  to  the 
vestry,  she  presented  her  to  every  one  as  a 
friend  of  Mr.  Benedict's  who  had  just  re- 
turned from  Europe. 

The  lonely  woman  was  somewhat  aston- 
ished when  she  found  herself  "  taken  up  " 
at  once.  Every  one  paid  her  the  most 
marked  attention,  she  was  so  stylish,  so 
elegant,  so  refined,  there  was  such  an  Old- 
World  air  about  her  ;  and,  besides,  she  was 
a  friend  of  their  dear  pastor.  Was  she  a 
widow  ?  No  one  knew  ;  but  they  left  that 
quLstion  for  the  future  to  answer.  It  was 
a  new  and  not  unpleasant  experience  to 
her :  she  watched  with  interest  these  ex- 
travagantly dressed  women,  who  scarce 
ever  took  a  needle  into  their  jewelled  fin- 
gers to  work  for  their  own  families,  sewing 
80  industriously  on  these  coarse  charity 
garments,  and  listening  with  the  deepest 
attention  to  the  details  of  some  new  case 
of  poverty.     Mr.  Benedict  glanced  at  her 


from  time  to  time :  she  was  sitting  between 
two  ladies,  her  head  was  bent  over  the 
work  which  seemed  to  absorb  all  her  atten- 
tion.    The  lady  who  sat  on  her  right,  lan- 
guidly stitching  a  Uannel   petticoat,  was 
the  widow  of  Mr.  Van  Ness,  "  ont!  of  our 
old  families,  you   know,"   whispered  Mrs. 
Wynton,  as  she  introduced  her.     She  was 
clotheil  in  crajie,  the  depth  of  the  most  pro- 
found grief;  yet  she  cast  sorrowfully  long- 
ing glances  at  Mr.  Benedict,  who,  she  said, 
had  been  a  great  comfort  to  her  in  her 
affliction.     "  He   is  just  perfect ;  and  my 
dear  husband  was    so  fond  of  him,"  she 
whispered  confidentially  to  Mrs.  Gordon, 
whereupon  Miss  Laselle,  who  sat  on  the 
other  side,  a  dashing  beauty,  whose  active 
benevolence  deceived  no  one,  drew  u|)  her 
moutl,  and  smiled  significantly.     Mrs.  Gor- 
don did  not  like  either  of  these  women. 
TTie  widow  was  too  soft  and   cat-like ;  the 
young  lady  too  bold  and  flippant.     "  Still 
they  are  of  the  best  society,"  she  thought ; 
"and   I   must    not    presume    to    criticise 
them." 

Once  Mr.  Benedict  came  to  her,  and 
said  pleasantly,  "  You  see  I  was  right :  you 
are  already  quite  at  home." 

"  Yes,  for  the  present,"  she  replied  ;  "  but 
it  will  not  last  long."    Yet  from  that  day  a 
new  life  opened  before  her.     The  church 
received  her.  Tlie  ladies  visited  her,  invited 
her,  consulted  her,  and  envied  her.  The  gen- 
tlemen admired,  praised,  flattered  her,  and 
overwhelmed  her  with  attention.     She  had 
work    enough    to    do, —charity-visits    to 
make,  committees  to  consult,  fairs  to  attend, 
concerts  to  patronize,  —  in  fact,  every  thing 
that  a  lady  of  wealth  and  leisure  engages  in. 
She  sang,  she  painted ;  and  her  talents  were 
always  in  requisition  for  some  charitable 
object.     Then    there    were    dinners   and 
soirees  and  receptions  and  assemblies  ;  and 
she  was  so  popular,  so  much  the  fashion,  all 
the  season,  that  such  success  as  hers  would 
have  completely  turned  any  other  head : 
but  she  went  on  her  way  serenely,  not  too 
much  pufled  up  by  her  triumph ;  for  she 
felt  that  to  a  certain  extent  she  was  sailing 
under  false  colors.     Sometimes  she  said 


104 


MRS.  GORDON'S  CONFESSION. 


'    i 


!l    S 


sorrowfully  to  Mr.  Benedict,  when  he  con- 
gratulatud  her  on  her  changed  life,  "  Yes, 
1  nm  too  happy:  it  cannot  last.  It  is 
always  so:  I  allow  myself  to  bo  happy; 
and  then  I  suffer  terribly  after."  The 
winter  was  almost  gone,  and  these  two  per- 
Bons  had  met  somewhere  nearly  every  day. 
They  had  had  many  long  and  earnest  con- 
versations which  had  approached  closely 
to  confidences ;  but  yet  no  woi-d  had  been 
spoken  that  could  throw  .any  light  on  her 
past  history. 

One  day  Mr.  Benedict  called  upon  her, 
and  surprised  her  with  red  eyes  and  sad 
face.  "  Are  you  not  happy  ?  "  he  inquired ; 
and  she  replied,  "  No,  not  altogether.  One 
cannot  forget  the  past,  and  live  only  in  the 
present." 

"  The  past  is  dead,"  he  returned ;  "  and  it 
may  be  folly  to  rera>^mbcr  too  much.  Your 
present  life  must  satisfy  you:  you  have 
friends  in  abundance." 

"  Friends  I  "  she  said  scornfully.  "  I 
have  h.ad  just  such  friends  as  the  most  of 
these  before ;  and  I  know  what  they  are 
worth.  Wait  until  something  liappens, 
and  then  see  who  will  stJind  by  me." 

"  But  nothing  will  happen,"  he  returned 
encouragingly. 

"  Yes,  there  will :  I  know  it.  I  am  sure 
some  trouble  is  approaching :  I  am  never 
happy  long ;  but  you,  my  best  friend,  you 
will  never  desert  me,  no  matter  what 
comes  V  "  Then  she  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 

Mr.  Benedict  was  more  distressed  than 
surprised ;  and  his  tender  soul  was  full  of 
love  and  pity  for  her.  In  that  moment  he 
felt  that  nothing  could  separate  them  ;  so, 
taking  her  hands  in  his,  he  said  firmly,  •'  I 
promise  you,  by  the  God  I  love,  that  I  will 
never  forsake  you."  Tlien  he  would  have 
saitl  more :  the  words  were  on  his  lips  that 
he  had  been  longing  to  speak  for  some 
months ;  but  she  drew  her  hands  away, 
crying  earnestly  and  imperatively,  "  Go, 
Mr.  Benedict ;  go,  or  I  shall  lose  my  only 
iriend  I " 

He  looked  at  her  imploringly,  bis  heart 
too  full  to  speak ;  but  she  only  insisted  the 


more, 
bio. 


and   he  went 


away  very  misera- 


It  was  Miss  Laselle  who  first  said  to  Mrs. 
Van  Ness,  "  I'll  bet  my  new  saddle-horse 
against  your  phaeton,  that  Mr.  Benedict 
will  marry  Mrs.  Gordon.  My  Kate  has  a 
sister  who  is  a  servant  in  the  house  where 
she  lives,  and  she  says  that  Mr.  Benedict 
is  there  half  of  his  time." 

Mrs.  Van  Ness  turned  as  white  as  her 
widow's  cap,  and  then  laughed  a  little  soft 
laugh,  "Oh,  my  dear  I  you  are  late  with 
your  news.  I  saw  how  that  would  end 
from  the  first,  and  told  Mrs.  Wynton  so.  I 
believe  they  were  engaged  in  Europe.'? 

"  Tlien  some  of  my  friends  have  wasted 
their  time  in  fishing  for  him  all  winter," 
returned  Miss  Laselle  spitefully. 

"  Yes,  I  have  thought  so,"  said  Mrs.  Van 
Ness,  with  treacherous  calm.  "  However, 
she  has  secured  the  prize  :  nothing  suc- 
ceeds so  well  as  a  little  mystery.  Who  of 
us  know  any  thing  of  this  Mrs.  Gordon, 
who  she  is,  where  she  came  from,  and 
whether  she  ever  was  man-ied  or  not? 
She  never  speaks  of  her  husband,  when  ho 
lived,  or  when  ho  died.  No  one  knows  any 
thing  of  her  except  Mr.  Benedict,  and  he 
is  as  impenetrable  as  a  sphinx." 

"  I  have  wondered,  more  than  once,  at  our 
set  taking  up  a  person  we  knew  so  little 
of.  In  my  opinion  Mr.  Benedict  is  no  bet- 
ter acquainted  with  her  past  than  we  are. 
I  had  it  from  the  best  authority,  —  Miss 
Laselle's  coachman  got  it  from  Mr.  Bene- 
dict's servant,  —  that  Mrs.  Gordon  pre- 
sented herself  at  the  rectory  an  entire 
stranger." 

"  Oh,  dear ! "  cried  Mrs.  Van  Ness,  full  of 
righteous  indignation,  "  how  we  have  been 
imposed  upon,  and  by  Mr.  Benedict 
too  t  I  must  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Wynton  at 
once,  so  she  will  not  waste  her  kindness  on 
an  adventuress." 

"Bah!"  said  Miss  Laselle  scornfully, 
"  she  knows  it.  I  told  her  my  opinion  ;  but 
she  thinks  her  perfect,  and  won't  believe 
a  word  without  proof.  For  Heaven's  sake, 
Fanny  Van  Ness  t  don't  say  a  word  until 
after  to-morrow  evening.     I  want  her  to 


I 


m'  trni 


VMpn 


I 
i 


kway  very  misera- 

lio  first  said  to  Mrs. 
r  new  sadille-ljorse 
that  Mr.  Benedict 
1.  My  Kate  lias  a 
n  the  house  where 
tliat  Mr.  Bi-oedict 

'A  as  white  as  her 
aughed  a  little  soft 
you  are  late  with 
w  that  would  end 
^Irs.  Wynton  so.  I 
;ed  in  Europe.'? 
I'iends  have  wasted 
)r  him  .a'.l  winter," 
litefuliy. 

so,"  said  Mrs.  Van 
calm.  "  However, 
rize  :  nothing  suc- 
mystery.  Who  of 
this  Mrs,  Gordon, 
3  came  from,  and 
man'ied  or  not? 
•  husband,  when  he 
No  one  Itnows  any 
•.  Benedict,  and  he 
iphinx." 
re  than  once,  at  our 

I  we  knew  so  little 
Benedict  is  no  bet- 
past  than  we  are. 
authority,  —  Miss 
it  from  Mr.  Bene- 
Mrs.  Gordon  pre- 
rectory  an  entire 

•8.  Van  Ness,  full  of 
how  we  have  been 
jy    Mr.     Benedict 

II  Mrs.  Wynton  at 
ite  her  kindness  on 

Laselle  scornfully, 
er  my  opinion  ;  but 
and  won't  believe 
?or  Heaven's  sake, 
t  say  a  word  until 
g.     I  want  her  to 


MRS.  GOnDON's  CONFESSION. 


105 


/■, 


sinff  at  my  reception  :  after  that  the  expose 
may  come,  for  all  I  <^m.  She  slia'n't  im- 
pose upon  us,  even  if  Mr.  Benedict  <loes 
marry  her," 

The  next  evening  Mrs.  Gordon,  all  un- 
conscious of  the  storm  that  was  brewing, 
walked  serenely  tlirouj^h  Miss  Lasellc's  re- 
ception-rooms to  the  liostess,  who  stood 
with  her  father,  receiving  their  guests. 
"  How  lovely  she  is  this  evening ! "  was  whis- 
pered on  all  sides;  and  indeed  she  was 
lovely.  She  wore  a  dress  of  amethyst- 
colored  velvet,  trimmed  with  rich  white  lace ; 
amethyst  and  pearl  ornaments ;  and  a  heavy 
coronet  of  purple  and  white  pansies  on  lier 
hair.  Mr,  Benedict  felt  a  thrill  of  pain  as  he 
looked  at  her :  she  was  lovely,  she  was  pale 
and  sad,  and  she  wore  colors  of  purity  and 
sorrow.  Why  had  she  selected  that  drass 
for  such  an  evening  ?  Was  it  accident,  or 
was  it  design  ?  She  sang  more  exquisitely 
tlian  ever ;  unconscious  that  it  was  the  last 
time  she  should  sing  to  these  hypocritical 
flatterers,  who  gathered  around  her,  charmed 
in  spite  of  themselves.  Later  in  the  even- 
ing, she  stood  quietly  talking  to  Mr.  Bene- 
dict, who,  almost  forgetting  the  argus  eyes 
of  society,  had  hovered  around  her  all  the 
evening.  She  was  very  happy  for  the  mo- 
ment: she  had  floated  away  from  her  old 
sorrows,  and  now  resigned  herself  to  this 
new  breeze  and  tide  of  happiness.  Mr. 
Benedict  loved  her,  —  his  every  act,  look, 
and  tone  told  her  so.  And  she  ?  A  woman 
must  be  silent  until  a  man  speaks.  He  had 
just  said  softly,  "  May  I  come  to-morrow, 
at  three  ?  I  must  speak  with  you  alone," 
when  Mrs.  Van  Ness  led  up  a  gentleman, 
saying,  "  Mrs.  Gordon,  may  I  introduce  my 
friend  ? "  Their  eyes  met :  the  man 
flushed  crimson ;  she  turned  deathly  white, 
and  instinctively  put  out  her  trembling 
hand  for  Mr.  Benedict,  who  had  turned 
away  at  that  moment,  without  noticing  her 
emotion.  So  she  stood  alone  in  the  face  of 
her  enemies ;  and,  knowing  it,  she  called  up 
all  her  pride  and  courage,  drove  back  her 
trembling  and  pallor,  and  addressed  the 
disagreeable  intruder  calmly.  Mrs.  Van 
Ness's  snaky  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her ;  but 


she  bore  their  gaze  without  flinching;  talk- 
ing with  her  usual  grace  and  case,  as  Ion" 
as  eti(|uette  demanded. 

A  half  hour  later  Mr.  Benedict  looked 
among  the  crowd  for  Mrs.  Gordon  ;  but  she 
had  gone,  anil  gone  without  a  word  to  bur 
host  and  hostess. 

It  was  Mrs,  Van  Ness,  who,  the  next 
morning,  said  curtly  and  cruelly  to  Mis. 
Gordon,  while  she  looked  her  full  in  the 
face,  "  How  long  since  you  lost  your  hus- 
band ?  " 

Mrs,  Gordon  started  like  one  who  had 
received  a  blow,  turned  pale  and  red  by 
turns,  hesitated,  and  then  replied  in  a  hard, 
constrained  voice,  "  Eight  years." 

"  Eight  years  I  you  were  a  widow  very 
young." 

"  I  was  married  at  seventeen." 

"  AVliere  did  your  husband  die  ?  "  contin- 
ued Mrs.  Van  Ness,  looking  triumpliantly 
at  the  face  that  seemed  to  be  settling  into 
stone  under  her  gaze, 

Mrs.  Gordon  did  not  reply  to  this  refine- 
ment of  cruelty  ;  but,  rising  suddenly  and 
haughtily,  she  said,  "  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Van 
Ness:  I  believe  our  business  is  finished.  I 
wish  you  good-morning;"  and  before  the 
widow  had  recovered  from  her  surprise,  she 
had  left  the  room. 

"  It  is  true ;  yes,  it  is  true,"  exclaimed 
Mrs,  Van  Ness  joyfully,  as  the  door  closed 
upon  her  visitor :  "  I  knew  she  was  an  ad- 
venturess," 

Poor  Mrs,  Gordon  walked  out  into  the 
sunlight  like  one  blind.  She  had  expected 
this ;  yet,  when  it  came,  it  shocked  her  as  it 
always  did.  She  was  one  of  a  purchasing 
committee  with  Mrs,  Van  Ness ;  and  some 
days  before,  she  had  made  the  appointment 
with  her  for  that  morning,  which  she  did 
not  fail  to  keep,  in  order  that  she  niiulit 
know  the  worst.  If  this  man  had  betrayed 
her  secret,  she  would  know  it  at  once.  She 
did  not  remain  long  in  doubt ;  for  Mrs.  Van 
Ness's  manner,  when  she  entereil  the  room, 
told  her  more  plainly  than  words  that  she 
knew  ail.  They  had  arranged  their  ac- 
counts, and  finished  their  business,  before 
Mrs.  Van  Ness  put  the  questions  that  shat- 


^ff1gg0fiti&tmt 


!-"!i»"l'.W 


106 


MR8,   GORDON'S  CONFESSION. 


' 


tt'i-ed  nil  her  hopes  at  one  Wow.  She  went  t"  "  Calls  herself—  !  do  not  understand 
home,  and  went  to  hed  with  a  siek  and  sore  '  you,"  and  he  looked*in(iuirin;,'ly  from  ono 
heart.     Mr.   Benedict  eanie  at  three  :  she  |  to  the  other. 

could  not  see  liini.  What  ri^ht  had  she  to  "  Coine  with  me,  Mr.  Benedict,"  said 
sec  him  V  How  dare  .xhc  love  him  V  Sliepira.  Wynton,  turning'  towards  the  door, 
could  not  see  him  a'^'ain.  Her  happiness  i  He  followed  her,  filled  with  surprise,  to  a 
was  over.      Kvery   thing  was   over.      Sht;  '  small   room  known    as  the  pastor's  study. 


must  go  away,  just  as  she  had  gone  aw.iy 
from  so  many  other  jdaees.     So  she  wept 
and  moaned  through  the  day,  and  scarce 
slept  until  dawn.     It  was  late  when  she 
arose,  and  the  morning  of  their  charity- 
school.     She  would  go  as  usual,  and  see  if 
they  all  knew  her  secret.     But  she  had  not 
been  there  ten  minutes  before  she  was  sure 
that  every   lady  who  had  been  her  friend 
was  intbrmcd  of  her  past  history.     Mrs. 
Van  Ness  turned  her  back  upon  her ;  Miss 
Laselle   looked   her   steadily  in   the   face, 
without  making  the  least  sign  of  recogni- 
tion ;  and  the  others  drew  away  trom  her, 
and  whispered  apart,  as  though  she  were  in- 
fected with  some  contagious  disease.     She 
had  ii  class  of  little  German  girls  whom  she 
taught  to  sew  :  they  loved  her  dearly,  and 
gathered  around  her  with  kisses  and  smiles. 
This  morning  she  drew  them  closer,  an<l 
tried  to  get  some  comfort  from  their  inno- 
cent art'ection.    "  Ah,  little  Gretchen,  how 
haiijiy  you  are !  "  she  said  to  a  llaxen-haired 
child.     The  pretty  creature  leaned  lovingly 
against  her  shoulder.     Mrs.   Gordon  laid 
her  cheek   on   the  soft  curls,  and   almost 
sol)bed  in  her  distress.     Mr.  Benedict  was 
not  there  :  perhaps  he  would  not  come ;  per- 
haps she  would  never  see  him  again.     How- 
ever, she  was  too  uidiappy  to  stay ;  so  she 
kissed  the  rosy  little  faces,  and  went  away^ 
leaving  a  tear  on  more  than  one  soft  cheek. 
But  she  had  scarce  gone,  when  Mr.  Bene- 
dict came.     Looking  around,  and  not  seeing 
lier,  he  feared  she  was  ill ;  so  he  went  straight 
to  a  side  room,  where  Mrs.  Van  Ness  sat  with 
a  grouj)  of  ladies,  and  asked  rather  excit- 
edly, "  Has   Mrs.  Gordon  been  here  this 
morning  V  " 

Mrs.  Van  Ness  drew  herself  up  haugh- 
tily, and  rei)lied,  "  Yes,  Mr.  Benedict :  the 


There  Mrs.  Wynton  closeil  the  doo>  ;  and, 
looking  him  full  in  the  face,  she  said,  "Did 
you  know  any  thing  of  this  woman  when 
you  presented  her  to  us  as  your  friend  ?  " 

"  If  you  refer  to  Mrs.  Gordon,"  lus  re- 
l)lied  sternly,  "  I  did  :  I  knew  that  she  was 
a  noble,  good  woman,  who  had  suflered  for 
no  fault  of  her  own  ;  and  she  w  my  friend, 
—  a  friend  whom  I  love  and  esteem  deeply." 
"  O  Mr.  Benedict !  how  you  have  been 
deceived  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Wynton  wrathfuUy. 
"  Slie  is  an  impostor,  an  adventuress.  Her 
name  is  not  Gordon,  and  she  is  not  a 
widow." 

"  How  do  you  know  this  ?  How  can 
vou  prove  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Benedict,  almost 
beside  himself. 

"  A  friend  of  Mrs.  Van  Ness,  who  knew 
her  years  ago,  recognized  her  last  night  at 
Miss  Laselle's  reception.  He  spoke  to  her, 
and  she  almost  fainted.  Mrs.  Van  Ness 
could  not  get  the  whole  story  from  him, 
but  he  told  her  enough.  He  says  she  is 
deceiving  us  all  "  — 

"  I  cannot  believe  it,  I  will  not  believe 
it,"  interrupted  Mr.  Benedict.  "  I  will 
stake  my  life  on  her  goodness,  on  her  truth. 
You  are  a  noble-hearted  woman,  Mrs. 
Wynton:  do  not  condemn  her  until  you 
know  all.  Wait  until  I  hear  her  history 
from  her  own  lips.  I  pray,  I  entreat,  that 
you  will  remain  her  friend  until  you  heai 
from  me.  I  am  sure  she  is  innocent ;  and 
I  will  convince  you,  if  you  will  only  stand 
by  her  in  this  trial.'' 

Mrs.  Wynton  loved  her  pastor  dearly: 
besides  she  was,  as  he  had  said,  a  noble- 
hearted  woman  ;  so,  seeing  him  in  such  a 
terrible  state,  she  tried  to  soothe  and  com- 
fort him,  telling  him  that  she  would  believe 
every  thing  he  wished,  and  that  in  any  case 


person  who  calls  herself  Mrs.  Gordon  has  '  she  would  stand  by  the  poor  thing. 

been  here."  I      The  ai'ternoon  of   the   same  day,  Mrs. 


«piTi"~-  J!IJ|M.W»*WiM 


■Mta 


tlo  not   understand 
ntjuirin^ly  I'roin  oiio 

Jr.  Benedict,"  saiil 
towards  the  door, 
1  with  surprise,  to  a 
1  the  pastor's  study, 
losed  the  doo'  ;  and, 
fiiee,  she  said,  "  Did 
if  this  \voinan  when 
s  as  your  iViimd  ?  " 
[rs.  Gordon,"  ]w  rc- 
I  knew  that  she  was 
who  had  sudered  for 
ind  she  w  my  friend, 
?  and  esteem  deeply." 
how  you  have  been 
.  Wynton  wrathfuUy. 
in  .idventuress.  Iler 
,  and  she   is  not   a 

w  this?    How  can 
Mr.  Benedict,  ahnoi^t 

/"an  Ness,  who  knew 
.zed  her  last  nir;ht  at 
tn.  He  spoke  to  her, 
ed.  Mrs.  Van  Ness 
hole  story  from  him, 
igh.     He  says  she  is 

it,  I  will  not  believe 
Benedict.  "  I  will 
oodncss,  on  her  truth, 
iarted  woman,  Mrs. 
ndemn  her  until  you 
il  I  hear  her  history 
[  pray,  I  entreat,  that 
friend  until  you  heai 
!  she  is  innocent ;  and 
if  you  will  only  stand 

id  her  pastor  dearly: 
he  had  said,  a  noble- 
seeing  him  in  such  a 
ed  to  soothe  and  com- 
that  she  would  believe 
i,  and  that  in  any  case 
;he  poor  thing, 
the   same  day,  Mrs. 


MRS.   GOUDON'8  CONFESSIOX. 


lOT 


<^ 


)  t 


Gordon  lay  on  her  sofa,  pale,   sorrowful, 
and  anxious,  trying  to  arrive  at  some  de- 
cision  respecting    her    future.     "  In    any 
case,"   she    rcpeateil   over   and    over,   "  I 
must  go  away.     I  cannot  remain  here  :  I 
can    never  sec   these   people   again.     Oh, 
what  folly  for  me  to  imagini^  that  I  might 
be  happy  !  My  misfortunes  follow  me  every- 
where ;   and  there  is  no  real  friendship  in 
the  world.     All  those  who  appeared  to  love 
me,  who   flattered  and  atlmircd  me,  have 
turned  their  backs  upon  me  as  though  I 
were  a  criminal."     Then    she  thought   of 
Mr.  Benedict,  and  an  unbidden  tc^ar  rolled 
down  her  pale  cheek.     "  Will  he  remain 
true  ?   Will  he  keep  the  promise  he  made  ? 
1  ihink  he  will ;  but  to  retain  hlui  as  my 
friend  will  injure  him  in  the  estimation  of 
these  ])eople  whom  I  have  deeeiveil.     It  is 
true  I  have  deceived  them  ;  but  how  could 
I  help  it?  how  could  I   help   itV"     Then 
she  burst  into  tears,  and  wept  freely  ;  after 
which  she   was  calmer.     She   had  asked 
herself  twenty  times  through  the  day,  if  he 
would  come;  and  at  last,   when   she  had 
almost  ceased  to  hope,  he  came.     He  was 
very  grave,  and  resolved  to  know  all,  even 
a  little  severe  in   his  determination ;    but 
when  she  raised  her  soft  blue  eyes  to  his, 
with  their  childish,  innocent  expression,  a 
thrill  of  tenderness  went  through  his  heart. 
A  smell  of  new-mown  hay,    the   dreamy 
languor  of  a  July  noon,  a  hot  little  cheek 
pressed  to  his,  smote  him  to  weakness ;  and, 
before  he  well  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he 
had  seized  her  hands,  and  was  vehemently 
pouring  out  the   story  of   his   love.  •  He 
called  her  Grace,  his  adored,  his  cherished ; 
the   only  woman  he  had  ever  loved,  the 
only  woman  he  ever  could  love ;  and  sl.o 
listened  pale   and  terrified.     At  last  she 
wrenched  her  bands  away  from  his  clasp, 
and  cried,  "  O  Mr.  Benedict  1  stop,  I  im- 
plore you !    You  must  not  speak  these  words 
to   me:   1  must  not  hear  them.     I  have 
deceived  you  ;  for  aught  I  know,  my  hus- 
band is  still  living." 

Mr.  Benedict  started  up,  stunned,  con- 
fused, almost  stupid,  and  stood  looking  at 
her   as  though  he  scarce  understood  her 


words.     At  last,  sighing  heavily,  ho  turned 
toward  tlii^  door. 

"  Ah,  you  will  go  !  "  she  cried,  "  my  con- 
fession will  drive  you  away;  you,  too,  will 
desert  mc,  as  all  the  others  have,  —  reuu-m- 
ber  you  ])romised  by  the  (loil  you  love." 

He  stood  irresolute,  terrified  by  the 
strength  of  his  emotions.  "  It  was  a  sol- 
emn promise,"  he  thought:  "no,  I  will 
never  desi^rt  her."  Then  ho  sat  down 
near  her,  ami  saiil  as  calmly  as  he  could, 
"  No,  Grace,  I  will  never  forsake  you  :  I  can 
still  be  your  friend.     Now  tell  me  all." 

"  I  must  go  back,"  she  said  with  a  gasp, 
"  a  long  way  back.  I  was  so  young  when  I 
married,  only  seventeen,  and  neither  father 
nor  mother  1  "  she  looked  at  him  appealing- 
ly.  "You  know  what  it  is  to  be  without 
father  and  mother.  Besides,  I  had  a  little 
fortune,  and  you  know  also  how  that 
attracts.  I  met  my  husband  at  a  ball.  Ho 
was  older  than  T,  but  so  handsome  1  so  ele- 
gant 1  I  loved  him :  yes,  1  am  sure  1  loved 
him  then.  In  less  than  a  month  after  I  met 
him,  we  were  married.  I  lived  with  him  two 
years,  —  two  years  of  fashion,  luxury,  and 
folly,  and  I  only  a  child.  My  fortune  was  se- 
cured to  me  in  charge  of  a  guardian  until  I 
was  twenty-five.  My  maiden  name  was 
Grace  Gordon  Barrett.  My  husband's  name 
was  Edward  Tremlett." 

"  Edward  Tremlett,  the  bank  defaulter ! 
Is  it  possible?"  cried  Mr.  Benedict  in 
astonishment. 

"I  see  you  remember  the  sensation  of 
eight  years  ago.  You  know  how  he  dis- 
appeared with  his  ill-gotten  gains,  no 
trace  of  him  ever  having  been  discovered. 
Then  he  died  to  me;  and  I,  deserted, 
heart-broken,  and  ruined,  died  to  all  my 
former  friends.  My  only  uncle,  who  was 
my  guardian,  took  me  abroad ;  and  we 
lived  for  four  years  in  Germany.  There  I 
adopted  my  middle  maiden  name,  that 
I  might  the  better  conceal  myself  from  all 
who  had  ever  known  mc.  While  my 
uncle  lived,  I  was  as  hapi)y  as  one  could  bo 
alter  such  a  terrible  experience  ;  but  when 
he  died,  four  years  ago,  and  left  me  alone, 
my  troubles  began.    I  was   too  young  to 


,:i#?aag^jij.'s 


ran'-^-«~ii-Xit- 


108 


MRS.  GOHDON'8  CONFESSION. 


i 


wander  nlioiit  tlio  wnrM,  with  no  ono  to 
pmtopt  luo  ;  anil  wIktcvit  I  wi-nt  I  crcatcil 
BMs|iicii)ii.  Even  my  diaiv^c  ol'  name  told 
a;;ainst  mc  ;  l)iit  how  could  I  retain  a  name 
that  liad  been  so  diMlionored  ?  In  the 
most  imexpi'ctcil  jilacesi,  at  tho  most  unex- 
pected times,  some  one  would  appear  hefure 
me  who  recojinized  me  as  Miss  IJarrett. 
A;,'aiii  another  who  knew  me  as  Mrs. 
Tremlett.  For  that  reason,  I  could  not 
remain  lon|4  in  one  place.  1  grew  weary 
■with  wandering,  and  at  last  decided  to 
return  liome.  I  hoped  that  ei-^ht  years 
liad  chau;j;ed  me  so  that  1  would  not  be 
easily  recognized.  I  Bhunned  the  society 
that  I  hail  associated  with  as  Mrs.  Tremlett, 
and  tried  to  make  friends  in  another  set. 
You  must  not  think  me  better  than  I  am. 
When  1  went  to  you,  it  was  not  so  niueli 
from  a  desire  to  en;^agc  in  some  charitable 
work  as  to  make  friends  through  your  inlhi- 
cnce.  I  have  been  very  hajjpy  since  I 
knew  yon,  until  night  before  last,  when  I 
met  face  to  face  an  intimate  friend  of  my 
husbanil,  who  recognized  me  at  once,  but 
who  was  pitiful  enough  not  to  ex])ose  me 
on  the  spot.  I  felt  instinctively  that  Mrs. 
Van  Ness,  in  spite  of  her  kindness,  was  atl 
enemy.  I  saw  her  silent  exultation  when 
she  discovered  my  confusion,  and  I  knew 
that  my  secret  was  in  bad  hands.  Now  I 
am  convinced  of  it;  and  the  others,  not 
knowing  the  circumstances,  look  upon  me 
as  a  criminal.  They,  and  perhaps  you, 
will  accuse  me  of  falsehood,  because  I  left 
the  impression  that  I  was  a  widow.  I  told 
you  that  I  had  no  husband.  I  have  none : 
he  died  when  he  deserted  me  with  an  odious 
Btain  upon  his  name.  M;s.  Van  Ness 
asked  me  impertinently,  bow  long  a  time 
it  had  been  since  I  lost  my  husband.  I 
replied  '  Eight  years ; '  and  that  also  was 
true.  I  lost  him  more  entirely  than 
though  the  grave  had  hidden  him  from  me. 
But  perhaj)s  you  will  see  only  equivocations 
in  all  that.  Now  I  have  nothing  more  to 
confess.  You  arc  the  first  person  to  whom  1 
have  laid  bare  my  heart  since  I  lost  my 
uncle.  Explanations  often  are  of  little  usjj. 
Each  one  prefers  his  own  construction  to 


tho  most  lucid  information  ;  but  T  believe 
J  cm  to  be  an  exi'ej)tion.  I  have  told  you  all 
because  I  still  desire  your  friendship,  your 
esteem  ;  but  love,  —  there  can  be  no  love  for 
me  ;  you  must  never  speak  of  it  .again." 
Then  she  covered  her  face,  and  sobbed  bit- 
terly. 

Mr.  Benedict  took  her  trembling  hands 
in  his,  and  said  very  gently  and  ealndy, 
though  his  heart  was  bleeding  within  him, 
''  My  dear  child,  I  thank  you  for  your  con- 
fidence, it  might  liiivo  been  better  if  you 
had  told  me  all  before.  I  believe  in  you, 
and  trust  you,  as  I  have  done  from  the  first 
moment  I  saw  you.  There  is  but  one  thing 
to  blame,  —  the  mistake  which  you  have 
allowed  because  you  thought  it  best.  Had 
I  known  your  true  position,  I  never  should 
h.ave  encouraged  a  passion  which  I  fear  I 
shall  find  it  dillicult  to  conipier.  However, 
with  God's  help,  I  hope  to  do  it  in  time,  —  to 
become  only  your  friend,  your  true  friend, 
your  father,  your  brother, — what  you  will. 
I  shall  never  change  towards  you ;  but  out- 
wardly I  cannot  be  the  same.  I  cannot 
see  you  at  present  as  often  as  I  hivve  done  : 
1  cannot  expose  myself  to  the  j)leasure  of 
your  society." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  she  interrupted. 
"  What  shall  I  do  ?    Where  shall  I  go  ?  " 

"  Nowhere  :  remain  here,  and  live  this 
down." 

"  That  is  impossible.  I  Lave  not  a  friend 
besides  yourself." 

"  Mrs.  Wynton  will  be  your  friend  :  she 
h.as  promised." 

"Put  of  kindnpss  to  you :  that  cannot  be. 
I  must  go  where  I  am  not  known." 

"  Do  nothing  rashly.  Remain  here  for 
the  present;  and  I  will  explain  whiit  is 
necessary.  There  are  some  who  will  be 
kind  to  you." 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried  passionately.  "  I 
have  done  no  wrong ;  I  will  not  be  the  object 
of  their  commiseration." 

Mr.  Benedict  talked  with  her  for  some 
time,  trying  to  strengthen  and  encourage 
her.  When  he  left  her,  promising  to  see  her 
again  in  a  few  days,  she  appeared  calmer, 
and  more  resigned  to  her  position. 


tion  ;  l))it  T  hplicvc 
I  liavi'  told  yini  all 
ur  lVii'ii(l>liii>,  your 
•f  I'iin  1)0  MO  love  for 
peak  of  it  a;fiiiii." 
ICC,  and  wibbcMl  liit- 

■r  tri'iiiblin;;  hands 
fi-ntly  and  calndy, 
'udin^  within  him, 
:  yon  for  your  eoii- 
bui-n  belter  if  you 
I  believe  in  you, 
done  from  the  first 
uro  is  but  one  tliin;^ 
e  which  you  liavo 
lu^^ht  it  best.  Had 
ion,  I  never  should 
lion  which  I  fear  I 
onquer.  However, 
odoit  in  time,  —  to 
,  your  true  friend, 
r, — what  you  %vill. 
'ards  you ;  but  out- 

0  same.  I  cannot 
en  as  I  have  done  : 
to  the  j)leasure  of 

t,"  she  interrupted, 
here  shall  I  go  ?  " 
here,  and  live  this 

1  have  not  a  friend 

le  your  friend  :  she 

ou:  that  cannot  be. 
ot  known." 

Remain  here  for 
11  explain  what  is 
some  who  will  be 

passionately.     "  I 
dll  not  be  the  object 

with  her  for  some 
len  and  encourage 
)romising  to  see  her 
I  appeared  calmer, 
r  position. 


MRS.   OOUDON'S  CONFF.asioy. 


ino 


The  ni;:ht  that  followed  was  a  nii;ht  of 
severe  conflict  to  the  nobli'-hoartccl  man. 
lie  loved  this  woman  with  the  first,  the 
only  love  of  his  life  ;  and  shi'  was  separated 
from  him  by  an  insnrmoimtable  l)arrier. 
It  was  a  sin  to  think  of  her  with  love.  The 
necessity  of  giving  her  up,  of  crushing  his 
new-l)orn  hope  to  (U'alh,  was  not  the  most 
])ainful  thing  to  him.  It  was  the  thou<j;ht 
of  her  loneliness,  her  suffering,  her  great 
ni'i'd  of  friends ;  and  he  could  not  even  offer 
her  the  sympathy  that  filled  his  heart  be- 
cause of  the  wicked  and  suspicious  world. 
II('  thought  of  her  with  infinite  sorrow  and 
jiity.  He  thought  of  liis  own  disappoint- 
ment with  regret,  of  his  future  struggle 
with  anxiety.  "  After  all,"  ho  said,  "  com- 
pareil  with  the  lofty  aim  of  my  lift-,  a  disap- 
pointed love  is  but  a  little  thing.  I  will 
try  to  do  my  duty,  and  leave  the  result  to 
God." 

Tlic  next  day  he  had  a  long  conversation 
with  his  friend,  Mrs.  Wynton,  during  which 
he  explained  all  the  peculiar  circumstances 
of  ^Irs.  Gordon's  life;  and  she  was  satisfied 
with  the  explanation  :  having  no  selfish 
motive  in  her  affection  for  her  pastor,  she 
was  prepared  to  be  just  toward  the  friend- 
less woman.  "  Trust  all  to  me,"  she  said 
kindly  to  Mr.  Benedict  as  he  was  leaving  : 
"  I  will  see  that  all  mistakes  arc  rectified. 
She  shall  never  need  a  friend  while  I  live." 
Mr.  Benedict  pressed  her  hand  gratefully, 
and  went  away  happier. 

Mrs.  Wynton  was  not  idle.  In  three 
days  she  made  quite  a  revolution  in  Mrs. 
Gordon's  favor ;  put  Mrs.  Van  Ness  down, 
and  silenced  Miss  Laselle  so  effectually, 
that  both  were  almost  ready  to  receive  her 
as  they  had  done. 

"  Ah  I  you  are  a  powerful  champion," 
said  Mr.  Benedict  thankfully  to  Mrs.  Wyn- 
ton, who  had  come  to  the  rectory  to  impart 
her  success  to  him.  "  I  must  see  the  poor 
child,  and  tell  her  of  your  goodness:  it  will 
comfort  and  encourage  her."  While  no 
spoke,  a  servant  handed  him  a  note.  He 
opened  it,  and  read  with  a  blank  face  the 
following  lines  from  Mrs.  Gordon  :  — 

"  I  cannot  go  away  without  thanking  you 


for  your  kindness,  without  saying  good-by. 
Your  ailvice  for  me  to  remain  here  was, 
l)erhaps,  ^ood  ;  but  I  cauni>t  feel  so  at  pres- 
ent. It  is  best  for  both  that  we  should 
meet  no  more.  I  go  to  hi(U'  my  sorrow  and 
disgrace  iimong  strangers.  If,  in  the  future, 
I  know  myself  free,  I  will  come  to  you 
again  ;  until  then,  think  kindly  of  me,  and 
]im\  for  me."  Without  a  word  he  gave 
the  note  to  Mrs.  Wynton  ;  an<l,  sinking  into 
a  chair,  he  ))urst  into  tears. 

A  year  passed  away,  —  a  long,  weary  year 
to  Mr.  Benedict,  bringing  no  news  of  Mrs. 
Gordon,  no  cure  for  his  love,  no  forgctfiil- 
ness  of  her.  He  thought  of  her  constantly 
when  alone  and  unoccupied.  He  had  tried 
in  vain  to  discover  her  retreat.  He  longed 
intensely  to  see  her  again,  if  only  once.  Ho 
had  grown  so  thin,  pale,  and  melancholy, 
that  his  church,  not  knowing  his  secret, 
thought  him  overworked,  and  proposed  a 
trip  abroad  for  the  next  summer.  Mrs. 
{Jordon  had  already  dropped  out  of  the 
memory  of  nearly  all  who  had  known  her ; 
but  she  still  reigned  supreme  in  his  heart, 
and  he  had  no  power  to  banish  her.  Ho 
worked  with  more  zeal,  more  energy, 
preached  with  deeper  meaning  and  force  ; 
went  less  into  fashionable  society,  and  more 
among  the  poor ;  was  as  poi)ular  as  ever, 
as  successful,  as  prosperous  :  but  something 
had  gone  out  of  his  life.  He  felt  as  he  diil 
afler  he  lost  the  little  blue-eyed  darling  of 
his  boyhood,  —  an  inexpressible  loneliness 
and  dreariness.  One  evening,  late  in 
March,  he  sat  before  his  study-fire,  dream- 
ing, as  he  of\cn  did,  of  his  lost  happiness, 
when  a  servant  came  to  say  that  ho  was 
called  to  see  a  dying  man  at  a  neighboring 
hotel.  The  person  who  had  como  for 
him  was  waiting  in  the  hall  as  he 
went  out.  "  I  could  not  go,  sir,"  he  said, 
"  until  you  went  with  me ;  for  I  prom- 
ised the  poor  gentleman  not  to  come  back 
without  a  minister." 

"  Has  he  been  ill  long  ?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Benedict,  as  he  hurried  into  the  street. 

"  I  can't  say,  sir.  He  was  brought  to 
the  hotel  yesterday  from  a  South-Ameri- 
can steamer." 


m 


'ammwj. 


iuim.'J|'ji'jul.Aju3g 


110 


MU9.   OOnnON'S  CONFKSSIOy. 


..  II„,  hP  no  fn..n.l«  >vith  Imn  ?  "  I  rcmaiu.-l,  .....k  forfilvcncHS  of  God,  ami  .li« 

.  N      1 :  1.  Havs  he  has  not  a  friend  in  '  in  ...u..     1  .l.on.l.t  to  have  liv.l  lon,..r 

..         '  I  than  lliii* :   now  1  l«now  nnotlu-r  honr   will 

^r' IW^li...  ..n,or...l  .h.  Hilont,  .lin.ly- '  .m,!  all.     In  my  trnnks  an-  pap.Ts  that  will 

,y  .,...1  roon.  .aaiy  ;  .or  a  lon.^y  .loath.  In-.l  |  ox,Iain   every  thin,  =    .ee    that  J^-.-v    -c 


hail  a  norrowl'nl  niranin'^'  for  him 

The  dyiri'/  man,  who  was  emaciated  to  a 
fri;:littiil  deL'ree,  and  jrhactly  jiale,  tinned 
his  dull  eyes  toward  Mr.  Benedict  as  he 
npiiroached  the  lied,  ami  said  in  a  weak, 
but  thankful  voice,  "  I  am  ho  i^lad  you  have 
come  t  I  suiniose  it'.s  ehildi^h,  l)Ut  I  can't 
bear  to  die  alone."  Tlien  lie  motioned  the 
servant  to  leave  the  room,  and  added, 
"  Come  nearer  :  1  want  to  tell  you  who  I 
am ;  hut  first  take  my  hand,  an<l  promise 
me  that  you  will  stay  with  mo  until  all  is 

over." 

Mr.  Benedict  did  as  ho  requested. 
"  Now,"  he  said,  "  hold  my  hand  tightly 
in  yours,  and  jiray  to  (Jod  lor  nic ;  for  I  am 
a  great  sinner,  and  I  want  to  be  forgiven  : 
but  how  am  I  to  ask  for  it  V  " 

"If  you  had  oiTended  a  dearly-loved 
father,  you  woul<l  know  how  to  approach 
hlra.  Go  to  God  in  the  same  way,"  replied 
Mr.  Benedict  gently. 

"  1  liave  so  little  time  1  I  am  cold  :  my 
Bi-rht  is  failing.  O  God !  can  you  hear 
meV  But  first  I  must  confess  all  to  you. 
l)o  you  remember  the  hank  defiiulter,  who, 
oi'dit  years  ago,  ruined  hundreds?" 
l^lr.  Benedict  bowed  his  head  silently. 
"1  urn  he,  — Edward  Tremlett.  Can 
there  be  mercy  for  one  who  wronged  and 
ruined  so  many  V  " 

Mr.  Benedict  was  almost  overcome  by 
this  revelation ;  liut  he  said  with  calmness, 
"  Yes  :  there  is  mercy  for  you,  <br  all.  You 
are  weak,  you  arc  helpless,  you  need 
strength ;  then  lean  hard  on  God." 

"  I  have  tried  to  find  forgiveness.  I  have 
suffered  and  repented.  I  have  longed  all 
these  years  to  return,  to  give  myself  up,  to 
restore  my  ill-gotten  wealth ;  but  fear  and 
pride  have  prevented  me.  At  last  I  knew 
I  had  but  a  little  time  to  live,  —the  fever  of 
remorse  has  consumed  mo  ;  and  I  felt  that 
I  must  return,  throw  myself  on  the  mercy 
of  those  1    have  wronged,   restore    what 


given  into  proper  hands.  I  hope  those 
whom  I  have  injureil  will  forgive  me  when 
I  am  dead,  and  pity  me  for  what  I  have 
snll'ered.  My  memory  is  leavin,'  me  ;  there 
are  other  thin;;s  that  I  would  say,  but  1  can- 
not think  now.  Oh  I  show  me  how  to  find 
(iod  before  it  is  too  late." 

"  I  will  pray  for  you ;  pray  with  mo  for 
yourself;  "  and  sinking  on  his  knees,  while 
iie  still  held  fast  to  the   damp,  cold  hand, 
Mr.  Benedict  poured  out  his  soul  in  plead- 
ing for  the  (lying  man.     All  night,  alone 
and  silent,  he  sat  by  his  bed,  the  thin  fingers 
clutching  his   tightly.     Ho   slept.    Would 
he  ever  awake?     Would   he  be  conscious 
again?      Would  he   sjieak    of   his   wile? 
Would  no  memory  of  her  disturb  or  bless 
his    last  moments,  — the  woman  who  had 
loved  him,  and  whoso  life  he  had  ruined  ? 
Toward  daylight  there  was  a  change,  an<l 
Mr.  Benedict  knew  that  the  last  moment 
was  drawing  near  :  for  he  startetl  out  of  his 
long  stupor ;  and  looking  up  with  wide-open 
clear  eyes,  and   a  smile  that  made   him 
almost   beautiiul,   he    said,  "Forgive   me, 
Grace."    Then  he  sank  back  on  his  pillow ; 
and  great  tears  welled  slowly  from   under 
his  lids,  and  rolled  down  his  face.     He  tried 
to  speak   again,  looked  thankfully  at  Mr. 
Benedict,  clasped   his    hand   tighter,   and 
dropped  away  without  a  sigh. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  Mr.  Benedict 
did  all  the  dying  man  had  requested,  —  saw 
him  laid  peacefully  in  the  family  tomb  at 
Greenwood,  and  then  took  such  measures  as 
were  necessary  in  regard  to  the  restitution 
he  had  intended  to  make,  managing  every 
thing  so  quietly,  that  the  public  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  death  of  the  man  whose  defalca- 
tion, eight  years  before,  had  caused  such  a 
sensation  throughout  the  country. 

It  was  some  time  before  Mr.  Benedict 
allowed  himself  to  think  of  Mrs.  Gordon  as  a 
widow,  —  as  a  woman  whom  he  might  mai-ry. 
But  when  at  last  he  admitted  the  thought,  he 


1 


I 


MUS,   OORPON'S   COXFF.aHrOK. 


Ill 


iH  of  (lod,  nnil  dio 
iiivc  liviMl  lonjier 
motliiT  lidur  will 
re  jaiuTs  tlwit  will 
[«o  that  tilt")'  nro 

1h.        I     liopi!     tllOXO 

I  tin'^ivc  nil'  tvhfti 

tiir  wliiit   1   Imvo 

leaving  mi' ;  tlicro 

uulil  siiy,  I'lit  lean- 

jw  me  how  lo  fiiul 

I* 

pray  with  mo  for 
oil  his  l;iu'('»,  while 

(laini),  cold  hand, 
t  liiH  soul  ill  jdead- 
All  ni;;ht,  alone 
1)0(1,  thu  thill  finj;i'r9 
IIo   8U'i)t.     Would 
Id   he  he  conscious 
leak    of  his   wife? 
ler  disturh  or  bless 
e  woman  who  had 
ifo  he  had  ruined  V 
was  a  chanj^e,  an<l 
it  the  last  moment 
he  started  out  of  his 
ir  up  with  wide-open 
lie  that  made   him 
said,  "For^^ive   me, 
.  back  on  his  pillow  ; 

slowly  iVom  under 
n  his  face.  He  tried 
I  thankfully  at  Mr. 

hand  ti;;hter,  and 
a  sigh. 

y  that  Mr.  Benedict 
lad  requested,  —  saw 
the  family  tomb  at 
took  such  measures  as 
ird  to  the  restitution 
ake,  managing  every 
,hc  public  knew  noth- 
e  man  whose  detiilca- 
e,  had  caused  such  a 
;he  country, 
before   Mr.  Benedict 
k  of  Mrs.  Gordon  as  a 
whom  he  might  maiTy. 
initted  the  thought,  he 


was  pofi-oKxed  wiili  the  desire  to  dUooverhor 
r.ti-eat.     r.Thaps  she  had  ^oiie  again  to  Ku- 
rotic.     He  caused  the  regislrrsof  the  steam- 
ship eomimnies  to  he  examined  ;  Imtamon,' 
the    names  of  passengers  who  had  sailed 
(luring  llie  year,  hers  was  not  to  he  found. 
He  aiUertised  eautiou-ly  in  the  dilVerent 
journals  of  the  princii-nl  cities.    He  wn.te  to 
j„„minent  clergymen  in  every  part  of  the 
eountry,axking  information  ;  to  physicians : 
,.ven  t()  State  registrars  and  police  olUcials  ; 
Imt  ill  vain  :  such  a  person  did  not  seem  to 
Ik-  in  the  country.     Then  his  hope  failed, 
and  with  it  his  health.     He  lost  his  interest 
in  his  Master's  work.     Study  was  impossi- 
ble :  his  sermons  were  badly  prepared,  and 
badly  delivered.     Nevertheless  his  church 
was  most  indulgent,  attributing  the  change 
to  overwork  and  ill  health.    "  He  must  have 
n  vacation,"  they  said  :  "  he  must  go  abroad, 
and  travel  until  he  is  better."     So  a  meeting 
was  ('ailed,  and  a  fund  was  raised  which  he 
was  begged  to  accept  with  his  dismissal  for 
a  year!"  He  did  not  refuse  the  dismissal, 
altiiough  he  did  the  money ;  for  he  had  in- 
tended to  resign  at  the   end  of  the  year, 
feeling  that  he  required  a  new  sphere  of  la- 
bor, new  scenes,  and  new  interests,  to  dis- 
tract his  mind  from   the    one    absorbing 
subject.    He  had  long  desired  to  visit  Pal- 
estine, the  theologian's  Mecca ;  now  he  was 
rcfolved  to  go ;  but,  before  he  went,  he  felt 
an  ardent  longing  to  sec  again  the  New- 
Kn'rland  village  where  he  had  passed  his 
ho)diood,  and  where  the  blue-eyed  little  girl 
had  fallen  asleep. 

It  was  late  at  night  when   he   reached 

p^ The  landlady  of  the  little  inn  gave 

him  a  comfortable  bed,  where  ho  slept  more 
peacefully  than  he  had  done  for  a  long  time. 
When  he  arose  the  sun  was  shining 
into  his  window,  and  the  swallows  were 
beating  the  blue  air  with  light  wings.  He 
leaned^from  his  casement:  the  sweet  scent 
of  new-mown  hay  drif\ed  across  his  face, 
dew  drops  sparkled  on  every  leaf  and  shrub ; 
the  songs  of  the  birds,  the  tinkling  of  the 
bells,  and  even  the  mower  whetting  his 
scythe,  sounded  like  the  sweetest  music  to 
him.    "  Oh,  how  lovely  the  country  is  1 "  he 


said.   "  Perhaps  I  should  have  been  happier, 
if    I   had    staid     here    and    li>ll.>vv('d    the 
plough."     Then  he  felt  a  pang  of  remorse 
ill  his  ingratitude  for  all  th(,'  blessiirgs  show- 
ered upon  his  life.     Ih^  had  received  even' 
thing  but  this.>negif>  of  love.     "  And  yet." 
he    said,  "  without   that  all   the    rest    are 
worililess."     H(^  knelt   down   at   his   open 
window  with  his  face  toward  the  rising  sun. 
The  soft  air  touched  his  forehead  as  gently 
lis     a     niotlier's     kiss.     Ciod's     sweet   day 
beamed  (Ui  him.     Was  not  life  glorious  and 
iK'autiful  V     Thinking   this,  he    bowed   his 
head,  and  prayed  for  one  thing  only,  and 
that  was  resign.ation.     All  through  the  sum- 
mer day  he  wandered  over  the   old    farm 
where  he  had  toiled  and  studied  and  strug- 
gled through   his  boyhood.     Lay  at  noon 
under  the  elms,  and  watched  the   mowers 
swinging  their  glistening  scythes,  listened 
to  the  drowsy  hum  of  the  insects,  and  the 
murmur  of  the  wind  among  the  leaves,  until 
he  felt  as  though  all  the  intervening  years 
were  blotted  out;   and   ho   was   again  the 
farmer's  boy  waiting  under  the  trees  for  the 
blue-eyed  child  to  bring  him    his   homely 
dinner.      It   was  nearly   night    when    ho 
started  to  walk  back  to  the  inn,  — one  of 
those  calm,  sweet  nights  that  fill  the  soul 
with  gratitude  and  peace.     The  road  was 
lonely  and  deserted,  save  now  and  then  a 
few  cattle  driven  by  a  tired  boy.     Here  and 
there  a  white  cottage  gleamed  from  its  ein- 
bowering  foliage ;  and  the  sound  of  a  child's 
voice,  or^a  mother  singing  her  baby's  lul- 
laby, came  softly  to  his  ear.     A  pretty  little 
dog  ran   down  a  shady  garden  walk,  and 
leaped  among  the  flowers.     He  looked  up, 
and  the  spot  was  so  lovely  that  he  looked 
again.     The  house  was  small  and  low,  ami 
almost  covered  with  climbing  roses.    The 
windows  were  open;   and   he    caught    a 
glimpse  of  white  curtains  waving  to  and  fro, 
pictures,  flowers,  and  books   that   Beemc(l 
strangely  familiar  to  him.     On  a  balcony  of 
one  window,  nearly  hidden  by  a  trellis  of 
vines,  sat  a  lady;  her  elbow  on  the  railing, 
her  chin  resting  on  her  open  palm,  and  her 
eyes  fixed  steadily  on  the  distant  heavens. 
'  There  was  no  mistaking  her  profile,  the 


-  i 


112 


Mns.   OOItI)ON'8   CON'FKSSrOX, 


UTiKM.fiil  turn  of.  li.T  li.'Mil.     Ft    wnn  Mrn. 

<ionll)tl,         Willi   I.IM'    Im.111,,1     li,.    ,.|,.;„.,„|      III,. 

l"w  linn',  iiml  nI I  iivmbli,,,,,  almo.t  lliiut- 

ill.',  lit  her  li'ct, 

Wlicii  luT  cyt.M  (;.1I  uiMiM  liiiii,  sh,.  wtiirtcil 
MtKliitt.Tr.lalittl.'cry;  aii.l  tli..n  nm  ,|„wii 
111.  ^-t.'i.M.)  iiHTt  liiin.  "  ()  Mr,  Jk-ncMli,.t, 
1  iiin  f'o  ;;lii(l !  "  Aw  iiliiioMt  hi.MhmI. 

"  (Jriicc,  my  Gni.f,  liow  cruel  you  have 
been  !  "  wii^ill  h,.  f;,iil. 

'I'licn  he  IimI  her  to  n  ^'iirili'n-!<oat ;  nnd 
tlu'iv.  li(.|ilin;f  lu'r  Immirt  in  ],U,  l„,  t„|,i  l,,,,. 
I.rirdy  cf  till   ilcilli  „f  IvhvanI  Tiviiilctt. 

Ml.'  li-tfiu'il  Willi  ^i.l  tiur,  liiit  ilry  ,.v..m  ; 
nn.l  when  he  liiuj  fiiilKJied,  she  wniil  ;.'ravelv. 
"I  r.-iret  his  iiiiha|)|.y  fat,';  l.ui  I  cannof 
iiioiirii  for  him,  lor  1  have  never  loved  him 
niiii'f  I  lost  him." 

"  We  will  speak  oC  iiiin  no  tiinre.  Th(> 
(ioil  that  has  taiieii  him  has  leii  nic  to  you. 
Yon  are  i'rce,  and  I  liavo  I'oiind  you:  are 
you  mine  fon^verV  " 

"  Forever,"  she  aiiiwered  softly ;  and  the 
Hoft  evenin;,' wind  echoed  again  and  again, 
'•  Forever." 

Then  they  talked  together  in  tlic  moonlit 
dimmer  evening,  with  grateful,  happy 
liearts. 

"  Why  did  you  come  here  ?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Benedict. 


"  He.  nil,,.  It  wnn  the  pla.e  whorp  your 

''".*■•' '  "••■'"  l'"^-'"l.      I  wished    t.>  !.e.-|„de 

inyselnroin  the  wnrl.l  that  had  tfiited  me 
K'l  I'rilelly.      I  kmw  you  loved  'his  spot  ;  and 

r  Im'II.'v.mI  that  you  wouM  n'tum  hi  j',-  to'  (Ind 
"I"  it'  living,  t.)  we.'i,  over  niv  grave  if 
dead." 

Then  Mr.  Iten.Mliet  toM  her  of  all  his 
sorrow,  all  his  ellorts  to  fiii.l  her,  all  his  h.ne- 
liness  an.i  liopeleKsnesd.  "  H,u  now,  thank 
<iod!itisende.l.  You  are  mim-,  an.l  we  will 
w.irk  to-ether  for  the  lovin-  Mast.T  who 
liMs  united  us  at  hist.  IFerelhrntlhesweet 
little  girl  who  was  all  my  happiness  in  tlioso 
"I'ld.iys:  here  Hin.l  the  .lear  woman  who 
will  he  nil  my  happiness  in  tlio  future. 
(i<A  is  good.  Life  is  sweet.  Look  up, 
dear  love,  to  the  h..aveiis  Oiled  with  stars, 
like  angels'  eyes.tlmt  beam  on  ur  tender- 
ly." 


Mr,  Benodiet  sailed  th.'  appointed  dnv, 
as  iie  ha.l  inten.le.l,  on  his  h.n-  pn.posJd 
visitto  the  Holy  Lan.l;  hut  he  did  m.t  go 
iildic.  When  some  of  his  most  intimnte 
li-i.'u.ls  went  to  the  steamer  to  see  him  olf, 
they  were  greatly  astonished  to  find  Mrs. 
Gordon  leaning  on  his  arm,  whom  he  intro- 
duced as  his  wiie. 


till'  pinpo  whore  ymir 
I  wIhIiuiI  to  set-'lutle 
il  ilmt  hud  tn-afi'.l  mo 
■nil  IdvciI  rlusspot  [iiiid 
i>iilil  return  iiw>v  to  find 
■p  over  my  grjivi.   If 

•t  (ol.l  her  of  all  his 
to  find  lit«r,  all  his  lnn«- 
*»<  "  Hilt  now,  thiink 
I  an!  mine,  ami  wc  will 
0  loviri','  MiiKtiT  who 

HtTc  I  lost  the  sweet 
invhappiiicHs  ill  tho^o 
till'  ili'ur  woman  wlio 
liiiess  in  the  riitiiru. 
is  sweet.  I-ook  up, 
VMS  filled  with  starx, 

beam  on  us  temler- 


1  tlie  appointed  ilay, 

n    his    ]()Il;r    pri)]„,.si.(l 

;  Imt  he  (lid  nut  ^o 
>t'  Ills  most  intimate 
amer  to  see  iiim  oil", 
mislied  to  find  Mrs. 

arm,  whom  hu  iutro- 


I 


\  / 


' 


I 


EVERY    STRING    BROKEN. 


My  friend  Horatio  savs  that  these  three 
leaves  IVoiii  my  jdiiriinl,  with  liie  MS,  oC 
poor  (liiiiio  I'alri/.in,  will  make  ii  verv 
pretty  little  story,  i'li'ttyl  what  a  word 
to  use!  Tragic,  I  should  say  was  the 
proper  expression;  Imt  llori'tio  is  some- 
thiiiu'  of  a  '•spoon,"  allhoii'ih  he  is  :_'ray, 
iiiid  uses  the'  tamest  ami  softest  wor<Is  to 
rwpresent  tlie  most  strikiii;;;  ihinjjs.  llotf- 
uver,  I  won't  find  fault  with  my  chum  ;  but 
I'll  coiiy  the  three  payes  from  my  diary, 
and  lend  you  the  MS.,  written  in  little, 
cramped,  nervous,  Italian  rliaraeters,  which, 
with  the  had  Kn.;li'<h.  you  may  find  dillieiilt 
to  ili'ciplicr.  When  you  have  done  with 
it,  1  hope  you  will  return  it  safely  to  me, 
so  that  1  may  keep  it  always  in  the  ease 
with  the  ''  Stradivariiis ;  "  lor  one  would  he 
of  no  value  without  the  other. 


COPIED   FROM  MY  JOURNAL. 

Jan.  -20.  —  There  goes  that  confounded 
violin  iv^ain  1  Is  the  man  mad  that  he 
makes  that  horrible  instrument  scream  and 
trroan  in  tliat  way  V  Is  there  simie  demon 
imprisoned  in  it,  or  is  that  little  ugly 
Italian  jiossessed  with  the  Devil  V  I  don't 
wonder  they  thought  I'a^'anini  in  lea;;iie 
with  the  Evil  One,  if  he  evoked  such  sounds 
from  his  '•  Cremona."  I  came  to  this  house 
to  find  peace.  1  thou.;ht  because  it  was 
down  town,  not  fashionable,  and  not  dear, 
that  I  never  should  hear  music.  1  don't 
like  music.,  — I  never  did:  I've  lived  too 
much  in  boarding-houses,  ami  heard  too 


8 


much  privctishk;;  on  iiie^dinu  pianos.    When 
I  eiiine  here  I  asked  the  lanillady  if  ib'fe 
was   a    piano    in   the  house;  and  she  said 
"no,"  an  if  she  were  sorry;   but  when  I 
remarked  that  I  was  j;lad,  she  added  ili:it 
she  didn't  like  them  herself,  tlioie.dit  them 
Ihlrty,  di»turbill','  lliill'^'s  ;   yet  a  week    alter 
she  pllf  liiis  mad  fiddler  ri^lit  over  my  head, 
nml  he  practises  eternally.      Simetimes  he 
fairlv  drives  intf  out  of  the  hoilsi'  with   his 
inlernal  elllerwauliic,'  —  yes,  caterwauliu^'s 
the  word,  altliotigh  it's   vulvar;  llir   1   de- 
clare, if  any  (uic   didn't   know,  they'd   cei- 
tainlv  say  there  was  a  convention  of  catH 
in  the  room  over  my  head.  <:oin:z  throu.;li 
every  tone  of  tlieir  diabolical  i,'am.-.t  .^' once. 
I  don't  think  I'd  mind  it  so  much  tlii(.f»,'h 
the  day,  if  he  didn't  keep  il    up  half  tho 
nijiht.    Often  I  I'an't  sleep  ;  and,  if  I  do  fall 
into  a  doze   for  a  few  minutes,  when  he 
seems  to  have  (ini«lied  scrapin;:,  suddenly 
he  wakes  me  witli  the  most  unearthly  yell- 
iii"  that  ever  was  heard  out  of  I'alidenio- 
ninm.     I'd  complain,  and  have  him  tinned 
away;  only  my  lanillady's  told  me  a  pitiful 
story  about  his  bein;^  poor,  and  in  Jeelile 
health,  and  havin'4  to  get  his   living   by 
playing    oil'    nights    in   the    orchestra   at 
Niblo's.     I  suppose  he  has  to  praeti.se  ;  and 
it  wiHild  be  confoundedly  mean  in  me  to 
prevent   the   jioor  ilevil  i'rom  earning   his 
daily  bread.     Still,  it's  hiird   to   bear  pa- 
tiently;   and   these   last   few  nights    he's 
been  worse  than  ever.     I  could  swear  that 
he's  been  playing  lately  on  oidy  one  string, 
and  that  stretched  to  the  utmost  tension, 
and   worn   to   the   finest    attenuation.     It 


•  ^aaaaaaaiaailiaasasBStBai 


is'te'iijajgoi.'.li'u^ 


US:'a4l'a^-jgftg^Sa)|gU)Jj|.«^Wg^|rigNl;^JMIMB!B^.J^»^y^J,4J^»; 


il 


k-imimmmik-inat-i 


'  I 


114 


EVERY    STRIKG   BROICEX, 


must  III'  ii  wondcvfnl  violin  to  make  so  inuuh 
.uiisf.      I  slioiiMn't  lu!  sur|)ri?c'il  if  it  was  a 
iviil  "  CiviiKiiiii."  All  I  tluTf  he  ;:oi's  a<,'ain  ; 
anil   tliorc's  soinutliiiif;  in  it  that  1  can't 
bciir  to-nii^ht  as  well  as  usual.     It  seems  as 
thiiir^h  a  liunian  soul,  imprisoned  in  it,  was 
wiiirni;4  ami  entreating  to  l<e  iVee.     Good 
(Jod  !  it's  like  the  voice   of  some  one  in 
agony.     If  it  wasn't  fiji-  the  fearful  storm, 
I'd  rush  out  of  the  house,  and   never  coi;5e 
back.     I'm  afraid  of  the  diabolical   thing. 
I  believe  the  Evil  One  stands  at  his  elbow, 
and  urges  him  on.     .Midnight,  a  January 
tempest  beating  at  my  window,  shaking  the 
sa-hes,and  screaming  down  the  chimney;  my 
lire  out ;  and  that  awful  music  in  the  room 
above,  —  that  wild,  weird,  unearthly  music. 
Now  he  produces  the  most  discordant  notes  ; 
now  succeeds  a  gush  of  delicious  melody 
that  laps  mo  in  Elysium.     What  is  be  try- 
in,'  to  do?     I've  never  heard  any  thing 
like    this:    it     surely    can't    be    fiddling. 
Angels,  instead  of  demons,   stand   at   his 
elUiw  now,  and  1  could  cry  like  a  child  ;  but 
I  won't :  no,  I  declare  I  won't  be  a  fool. 
Ha  I  ha !  ha !  this  is  a  carnival  of  mirth  : 
1  am  convulsed  with  laughter.     I  think  the 
D'vil  is  trying  to  bewitch  me.     I  must  get 
out  of  tljis,  or  I'll  lose  my  senses.     Now  his 
violin  bellows  like  an  enraged  bull.     Is  he 
playing    on    one    string,    or  a    hundred? 
■\Vbat    a    temi)est!      What   groans,    sobs, 
roaring  tlwinder,  screaming  wind  !     What 
a  clashing  of  combatants  !  armies  are  con- 
tending, and  above  all  I  hear  shrieks  of 
lauijhter  like  mocking  fiends  rejoicing  over 
the  ruin  of  a  world.     The  armies  tlee,  the 
fiends  pursue,  the  winds  rush  after ;  and  this 
tornado  of  sound  fades  away  into   silence 
and     distance.       Now    it     changes,     and 
resembles  a  jjlacid,. rolling  river,  which  dies 
into   a   thin   transparent   tinkle,    mystical 
and  sweet  as  the  silvery  tones  of  a  lute. 
Again  it  rises,  wild,  beautiful,  passionate, 
pleading,  —  the  outcry  of  a  longing,  hungry 
soul,  a  reaching  up  to    the    Infinite,   the 
Eternal ;  a  current  of  melody,  bearing  the 
unresisting  sjjirit  up,  up,  into  the  divine 
ether,    the  limitless    expanse    of   heaven. 
What  am  I  ?    Where  am  I  ?    Have  I  been 


in  a  trance?     Have  I  been  bewitched,  and 
by  music  too  ?     I  believe  I  liave  ;  but  don't 
tell    me    that    I've   writlcn    all  this    trash 
while  I've  been  listening  to  that  horrible 
violin.     I've  a  good  miml  to  tear  it  out : 
no,   I    won't.     I'll    leave    it,    because    the 
whole  impression  was  so  curious.     I  think 
I  was  half  asleep.     I  iloii't  know  vvhether 
I  was  or  not;  but  any  way,  I  lost  myself 
in  the  midst  of  that  unearthly  fiildling,  and 
went  through  all  sorts  of  fantastic  s^ensa- 
tions.     I'm  absurd  :  I  dare  say  my  dinner 
hasn't  digested,  and  it's  that  instead  of  the 
music.     However,  I  ha<l  a  new  experience. 
I  wonder  if  people  who  are  music-mad  feel 
as  I  did.     I  thought  I  was  going  straight 
up  to  God,  sins  and  all ;  and  I  wasn't  afraid 
either.      That    smooth,    clear   stream    of 
sound  seemed  to  carry  me  away  into  infi- 
nite space.   I  was  as  light  as  a  bird,  and  as 
free  as  air;  when  suddenly  the  one  string 
he  was  playing  upon  snappe<l  with  a  noise 
like  the  report  of  a  pistol,  and  I  came  back 
to  earth  as  heavily  as  an  old  lead   block 
di'oppe<l  from  the  steeple  of  Trinity  Church. 
It's  nearly  two  o'clock  :  there  is  a  lull  in 
the  storm,  and  a   deathly  silence  in    the 
room  above.    Poor  tool  1  he's  broken  every 
string:  ho  can't  scrape  any  more,  and  so 
he's  gone  to  bed  ;  and  I'll  go  too,  though  I 
don't  believe  I'll  sleep  a  wink  after  having 
ray  nerves  so  worked  upon. 

Jan.2\.  —  Tliis  morning  my  landlady 
rushed  into  my  room,  without  her  teeth 
and  back-hair,  as  pale  as  parchment,  and 
as  wild  as  a  maniac,  crying,  "  O  Lord  !  O 
Lord!  he's  dead."  — "Who's  dead?"  I 
inquired  in  a  very  unsympathetic  way  ;  for 
I  thought  she  meant  her  nasty  pcjodle,  that 
always  barked  at  me  when  I  came  in,  and 
I  was  secretly  glad.  "  Why,  that  fiddler, 
that  poor  man  up  stairs  :  he's  sitting  in  his 
chair  stone-dead."  I  must  say  her  words 
gave  me  a  shock,  a  fearful  shock  !  and, 
scarce  knowing  what  I  did,  I  followed  her 
up  stairs.  The  morning  sun  shone  into 
the  dingy  little  room  with  wohderful  bril- 
liancy, and  lay  like  a  golden  halo  on  the 
upturned  forehead  of  the  dead  miin.  I  had 
always  thought  him  an  ugly,  insignificant 


P 


en  bewitched,  nnil 

1  Imve  ;  but  don't 
en  all  this  trash 
5  to  tluit  horriblo 
nd  to  tear  it  out : 
!    it,    becauso    tho 

eurious.  I  thiiilc 
)ii't  know  wliether 
vay,  I  lost  myself 
irthly  fiddling,  and 
of  lUntastie  s^ensa- 
aru  say  my  diTiner 
that  instead  of  tlie 

a  new  experience, 
are  music-mad  feel 
ivas  '^oiny;  straight 
and  I  wasn't  afraid 
clear  stream  of 
me  away  into  infi- 
lit  as  a  l)ird,  and  as 
;idy  th(!  one  string 
i[)pe<l  with  a  noise 
A,  and  1  eame  back 
an  old  lead  block 
1  of  Trinity  Church. 
: :  there  is  a  lull  in 
hly  silence  in  the 
!  he's  broken  every 

any  more,  and  so 
'11  go  too,  though  I 
,  wink  after  having 
ion. 
•ning   my  landlady 

without  her  teeth 

as  parchment,  and 
■ying,  "  O  Lord  !  O 
^  Who's  dead?"  I 
mpaihetic  way ;  for 
:r  nasty  poodle,  that 
hen  I  came  in,  and 
■'  Why,  that  fiddler, 

:  he's  sitting  in  his 
uust  s.ay  her  words 
['earful  shock  !    and, 

did,  I  followed  her 
ing  sun  shone  into 
ivith  wonderful  bril- 
l|olden  halo  on  the 
le  dead  man.  I  had 
n  uglv,  insignificant 


EVERY  STRING  BROKEN. 


115 


i-^ 


creature,  when  1  hail    met    him    on   the 
stairs,  going  in  and  out ;  but,  now,  ennobled 
by  death,  there  was  something  positively 
sublime  in  the  expression  of  his  face.     His 
head  was  thrown  back  against  his  chair  ;  his 
wide-open  eyes  looked  up  with  infinite  long- 
ing and  passion  in  their  fixed  gaze;  his  Wps 
were  parted  in  an  enraptured  smile  ;  and 
his  long,  thin  fingers  held   in  their  rigid 
clasp  the  wonderful  instrument  that  worked 
such  a   spell   upon  me   last   night.     As   I 
looked  at  him,  I  could  not   but  feel   that 
there  was  an  awful   mockery  in  that  cold, 
still  face  ;  those  sightless  eyes  staring  into 
vacancy,  with  their  eager  (juestioning;  the 
glowing  sun  kissing  his  brow ;  the  parted 
lips  smiling  at  death  ;  tho  violin  clenched 
in  his  powerless  hand,  silent  and  tuneless, 
with  every  string  broken.    In  a  moment  of 
ecstasy,  death  must  have  touched  him  into 
painless    repose.      With    tho    mystery   of 
another  existence  close  upon  him,  he  had 
played  himself  into  eternity.     AVhcn  tho 
last  string  broke,  the  last  cord  of  his  life 
snapped  asunder ;  and  master  and  instru- 
ment became  silent  forever.     I   took  the 
violin   from  his   rigid   grasp :    it  Avas   an 
antique    of   exquisite   workmanship.      On 
the  back  was  the   name,   "  Stradivarius," 
and  the  date,  — 1782.     Being  frightfully 
emaciated,  he  was  as  light  as  a  child ;  so  I 
took  him  in  ray  arms,  with  a  strange  chok- 
ing in  my  throat,  laid  him  on  his  bed,  and 
tried  vainly  to  close  his  wide-open  eyes  with 
their  haunting,  inquiring  gaze.  Then  I  sent 
the  landlady  for  a  doctor,  although  1  knew 
it  was  useless ;  and,  while  she  was  gone,  I 
looked  around  the  room   to  see  if  I  couhl 
discover  any  thing  to  explain  the  mystery 
that  seemed  to  surround  this  strange  man. 
The  attic  was  poor  and  dingy,  with  not  a 
comfortable  article  of  furniture  in  it ;  there 
were  no  clothes  in  closet  or  drawers,  and 
those  he  had  on  were  much  worn  ;  he  had 
no  watch,  no  jewelry,  no  money  about  him ; 
and  there  did  not  seem  to  be  a  thing  in  the 
room  of  the  least  value,  except  this  almost 
priceless  "  Stradivarius."    On  the  table  lay 
a  few  sheets  of  music,  an  English  diction- 
ary and  grammar,  and    a    sealed  paper, 


addressed,  strange  to  say,  "  To  the  gentle- 
man in  till'  room  below."  I  took  possession 
of  this  document,  so  unexpectedly  thrust 
tipim  me  ;  and,  when  the  landlady  returned 
with  the  doctor,  I  came  down  to  my  room 
anil  read  it  with  a  feeling  of  awe  and 
pity. 


TIIK  MS.  OF  GTULIO  PATRIZIO. 

When  I  am  dead,  some  one  will  bury 
me,  some  one  will  take  possession  of  my 
"  Stradivarius ;  "  and  I  wish  it  to  be  one 
who  will  understand  the  value  of  the  treas- 
ure I  leave  to  him.  Therefore  I  take  the 
lilicrty  of  addressing  this  to  iny  fellow- 
lodger,  whoso  benevolent  and  intelligent 
face  has  impressed  me  tavorably  in  the  few 
times  that  I  have  had  the  honor  to  meet 
him  passing  in  and  out. 

My  name    is     Giulio   Patrizio.      I   was 
born  in  Cremona.     My  father  was  a  violin- 
maker,  and  his  fathers  before   him    were 
pupils  of  the  Auiatii  and  Stradivarii.     At 
an  early  ago  I  displayed  (juitc  a  remarka- 
ble talent  for  music  ;  and  my  father  allowed 
me  to  quit  the  workshop  and  study  with 
Savori.     For  a  while  I  made  very  good  pro- 
gress, but  I  never  cared  to  study  closely : 
what  I  learned,  I  learned  with  very  little 
trouble.     I  lacked  application  ;  and,  without 
that,  one  can  never  reach  real  excellence. 
Before  I  was   twenty  I  grew  discontented 
with   my  home,  which  was  very  unhappy, 
owing  to  a  domestic  trouble,  and  jiined  tho 
.army  without  my  father's  permission.      I 
served  with  a  savage  energy  for  three  years  : 
then  peace  was  restored,  and  I  received  an 
honoralile  discharge ;   but  my  career  as  a 
musician   was   ruined.     My   father,  disap- 
pointed, poor,  and  unhappy,  died  of  .a  broken 
heart,   leaving   hi?   "  Stradivarius,"  which 
was  an  heirloom,  and  all  he  possessed,  to 
me  his  only  child.     With  my  treasure,  and 
nothing  besides,  I  left  my  country,  deter- 
mined to  see  the  world.     I  playeil  in  differ- 
ent parts  of  Germany,  in   Paris,  and  Lon- 
don, but  met  with  little  success,  owing  to 
the   popularity   of  Vieuxtejnps,   who  was 


!l      ! 


110 


EVERY  STRING  BROKEN. 


then  lit  tlic  zenith  of  his  fame,  and  my  own 
lack  of  inlliience,  hesiiles  my  iirnornnce,  and 
the  (li(!id('iic(^  wliieli   I  eoiiM    never   over-  , 
come.     SdiiK!  years  passed  away  in  the  nil-  j 
snecessful  strn'jfile  ;   and  at  last,  tlioroil'.'hly  | 
disenaraieil  witji  my  ICiiropean  experience, 
broken  in  liealtli  and  spirit,  I  cU'cided  to 
visit  America,  which  I  looiced  npon  as  tlie 
artist's  KIdorado. 

Less  tlian  a  year  a^';o  I  arrived  in  New 
Yoric,  alone,  friendless,  and  witli  very  littiu  j 
besides  my  violin,  wliicli  sliould  have  l)een  a 
fortune  to   ine,  i)Ut.  insleail,  I   jiave  almost  , 
starved;  ilirwitii  my  talent,  the  insiriiction 
of  tiie  divine  Savori,  and  my  matchless  in- , 
strument,  1  liave  never  suceei.'ded  in  }j;ettin^ 
an  en;rai;emenf,  hut    have    only  existed  as 
second  or  third  violin  in  the  orchestras  of  i 
the  different  theatres.  | 

.\  few  inontlis  a<;o  I  was  j)laying  off 
ni,:^hts  at  Niljlo's;  and  a  new  actress  was 
turning  the  heads  of  all  the  orchestra  with 
her  talent  and  boatily.  T  sean'i;  ever 
noticed  the  ditrerent  women  who  played 
their  ])arts  more  or  less  badly,  decked  with 
paint  and  tinsel  as  false  as  their  roles. 
Neither  did  I  visit  the  green-room,  nor  as- 
sociate with  the  artists;  because  I  never  was 
liked,  not  being  of  a  social  or  convivial 
character.  And  no  one  ssemed  to  notice 
me,  unless  it  were  to  laugh  at  my  bad  Eng- 
lish, odd  looks,  and  awkward  manners ; 
therefore  1  oidy  got  through  my  parts  indif- 
ferently enongli,  ti)r  T  had  no  inspiration,  no 
motive,  to  call  forth  the  soul  of  music  that 
still  slumbered  within  me.  This  eveninir, 
which  decided  my  destiny  by  conducting 
me  at  last  to  the  end  of  all  things,  T  sat  in  the 
orchestra,  scraping  away  gloomily  enough  at 
my  part.  Almost  hidden  by  the  instruments 
and  players,!  could  not  see  the  stage  tlii-ce 
feet  beyond  the  footlights ;  still,  I  knew  that 
the  new  actress  had  ai)peared  by  the  storm 
of  apj)lause  that  greeted  her.  It  was  som(! 
time  before  I  saw  her;  and,  when  I  did,  she 
was  standing  .almost  over  me  in  a  full  blaze 
of  light,  the  most  glorious,  the  mo.st  divine 
beauty  I  had  ever  seen,  or  dreamed  of: 
not  the  false,  glaring  beiiuty  of  the  stage, 
but  Nature's  own  matchless  perfection.    As 


she  first  ajjpeared  to  me,  she  appears  to  me 
now,  here  in  the  darkness  and  silence  of 
night.  A\'heu  I  close  my  eyes  sIk?  stands  be- 
fore me,  as  she  stooil  before  nie  then:  her 
great  passionate  iilue  eyes,  like  violets  wet 
with  dew;  h(;r  matchless  brow,  lier  smiling 
mouth,  her  sparkling  teeth  ;  her  wr.ves  of 
golden-brown  hair,  such  as  our  old  artists 
loved  to  paint ;  her  neck  and  arms  of  pei'li'ct 
shapif  and  dazzling  whiteness;  the  shim- 
mer of  her  pale  blue  robe  ;  the  regal  light  of 
the  gems  that  decked  her  brow  and  bosom, — 
madi!  her  a  vision  too  glorious  l()r  me  to 
look  npon  face  to  face.  I  forgot  where  I 
was,  I  f()rgot  every  thing,  and  gazed  at  her 
entranced,  with  the  wide-open  eyes  and 
rapt  expression  of  one  who  suddeidy  sees 
something  supernatural  l)ef()ri' him.  There 
was  a  pause  in  the  orchestra;  but,  uncon- 
sciously, I  ])layed  several  bars  after  every 
other  instrument  was  silent.  The  eircct  of 
those  single  shrill  strains  was  electric.  The 
audience  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter;  the 
musicians  were  convulsed  witli  niirtli,  as  I 
dropjHMl  my  violin  in  tin;  greatest  confusion, 
and  kK)ked  wildly  around.  Tlieii  her  sweet 
eyes  fell  n])on  me,  and  I  fancied  there  was 
an  expression  of  pity  in  their  gentle  glance. 
I  could  have  wept  te.irs  like  rain  ;  I  coidd 
have  knelt  at  lua-  feet,  and  kissed  the  dust 
under  them  ;  I  coidd  have  worshipjjed  her 
as  devout  Catholics  worship  th(!  mother 
of  God.  From  that  moment  I  adored  her  ; 
my  soul  went  out  from  my  own  keeping, 
and  lay  trembling  before  her  ;  I  saw  nothing 
beyond  her ;  she  was  light  and  life  to  me. 
I  was  no  longer  a  sullen,  impassive  man, 
void  of  desire  and  hope  :  a  new  lite  awoke 
within  my  veins,  and  tlirobbed  in  every 
pulse.  "My  geidus,  that  had  loiei  lain  dor- 
mant, stirred  and  quickened  into  a  glorious 
resurrection.  Jly  violin  spoke  to  me  in 
new  and  wonderful  tones.  I  poured  out 
my  soul  to  it,  and  it  answered  me  in  impas- 
sioned floods  of  melody.  I  longed  to  play 
before  her,  that  she  might  recognize  the 
divine  hidden  under  my  forbidding  exterior. 
She  seemeil  to  me  the  embodiment  of  every 
perfection,  an  angel  shrined  in  flesh,  a  sa- 
cred thing,  the  hem  of  whose  garment  I 


i  <&; 


HHMi 


EVERY   STRING  BIIOKKN. 


117 


',  sli(!  appi.'ai's  to  me 
less  anil  silt'tipu  ol' 
V  fycH  sli(^  stamls  lio- 
clore  1110  llii'ii  :  her 
;vi's,  like  violets  wet 
ss  l)n)w,  her  sinilinj; 
i'ftli ;  luT  wr.vi's  of 
li  as  our  old  artists 
c  ami  ar.iis  of  ptTlt'i't 
liiteiii'ss;  the  ^hilll- 
le  ;  the  rej;al  li;^ht  of 
rlii'ow  and  liosom, — 
glorious  lor  me   to 

.       I   tbl'liOt    wluTC    I 

IJ,  and  jfazed  at  her 
idc-open  eves  and 
who  siiddt'iilv  sees 
lielbre  him.  There 
.•hestru ;  but,  uneon- 
ral  bars  after  cvcrv 
lieiit.  The  I'lFeet  of 
IS  waseleetiie.  Tlie 
liar  of  lau;j;hter;  the 
■ed  with  inirtli,  as  I 
e  greatest  confusion, 
id.  Tlien  her  sweet 
[  fancied   there  was 

I  their  gentle  glaiiee. 
!  like  rain  ;  I  eould 
anil  kissed  the  dust 
lave  worshipiied  her 
'orship  the  mother 
meat  1  adored  her  ; 

II  ni}'  own  keeping, 
e  her  ;  I  saw  nothing 
ght  and  lifij  to  me. 
len,  impassive  man, 
•i  :  a  new  lite  awoke 

tlirob!)ed  in  every 
t  had  lori'i  lain  dor- 
ieiied  into  <a  glorious 
in  spoke  to  me  in 
jnes.  I  poured  out 
<wered  me  in  iiiipas- 
'.  I  longed  to  play 
light  recognize  the 
•  forbidding  exterior, 
'inbodiment  of  every 
fined  in  flesh,  a  sa- 
if  Avhose  garment  I 


f 


dared  not  hope  to  touch.     T  only  lived  when 
she  was  betiire  me.     I  followed  her  like  a 
shadow,  that  I  might    not   lose    the    least 
glimpse  of  her.     I  resigned  my  place  in  the 
orchestra,  that  I  might  hang   around    ihe 
door  of  the  green-room  to  be  near  her  when 
she  passed  in  and  out,  to  feel  the  air  Irom  I 
her  dress,  to  ealeh  the  faint   perfume   from  ; 
her  waving  hair.      Sometimes   her   lovely  j 
eyes  turned  upon  me  for  a  moment,  indiller-  , 
futly,  carelessly,  it  is  trm;;  for  what  eould  , 
that' radiant,  happy  creature  see  in  iht!  little,  j 
dark,  shabby  man  who  lingered  in  the  path  j 
where  she  walked   triumphantly,  followed 
by  a  crowd   of  adorers.     One   night  she 
passed  very  near  to  me ;  and  I  heard  her 
say  to  tlu!  gentleman  upon  whose  arm  she 
leaned,   "  What   glorious    eyes ! "    Whose 
eyes  did  she  mean  V  Not  mine,  surely  ;  and 
yet  she  looked  at  me.     For  more  than  two 
months  I  haunted  her  steps,  consumed  with 
this  anient  passion.     I  eould  not  sleep ;  I 
could  not  eat ;  I  eould  only  count  the  slow 
moments  until  night,  when  I  eould  go  and 
worship  her  ;  and  my  only  consolation  dur- 
ing these  hours  of  waiting  was  my  violin. 
I  poured  out  all  the  story  of  my  love,  my 
adorati.m,    upon    its    sympathetic    string, 
until  I  had  a  composition  perfect  enough  to 
express  to  her  what  I  felt,  when  the  time 
came  that  I  should  play  in  her  presence. 
Sometimes  I  was  tortured   with  jealousy. 
I  envied  the  actors  who  jilayed  with  her : 
every  fibre  of  my  being  resented  the  neces- 
sary familiarities  of  the  stage.     I  trembled 
and  grew  cold  when  the  mock  lover  knelt 
at  her  feet :  when  he  pressed  her  hands  to 
his  lips,  when  he  poured  his  passion  into 
her  listening  ear,  my  blood  ran  like  liipiid 
fire  through  my  veins.     In  every  part  she 
acted,  I  was  with  her,  and  went  through 
every  gradation  of  feeling  even  as  she  did. 
I*Iy  heart  wept  when  tears  fell  from  her  eyes ; 
when  she  represented  mental  suffering,  my 
whole  being  was  in  agony,  not  imaginary, 
but  real ;  when  she  smiled,  I  was  softened 
to  tears;  when  her  face  wore   a   shadow, 
black  darkness  settled  around  me.     I  lived 
but  in  the  light  of  her  eyes.     I  showered 
flowers  upon  her  in  a  single  night  that  cost 


the  labor  of  weeks;  and.  when  T  had  spent 
all,  I  sold  everything  I  possessed,  to  earjiet 
the  stage  with  roses.     Onee  she   droplied 
her    ^love    almost   at    my    feet.       Si'veral^ 
stooped  to  pick  it  up  ;  but  I  th-ew  myself' 
upon  it  with  such  violence  that  I  attracted 
the  attcnlion  of  all,  and  made  myself  the 
butt  of  their  ridicule.     Again,  one  ev(Miing, 
while  1  waited  in  the  dimly-li-hted  corri- 
dor, two  gentleman  came  out  of  the  green- 
room, and  one  of  them  spoke  insolently  of 
her  as  he  jiassed.      In  an  iiist.iiit    I    was 
I  upon  him,  lashing  him  fiercely  with  my  cane. 
I  Then    both    turned  ;  one  said,  "  It    is    the 
I  crazy  fiddler ;  "  and  the  other,  a  tall,  power- 
'  fill  man.  struck  me  between  the  eyes,  and 
I  knocked  me  senseless  against  the  wall.     I 
'  lay  there  for  some  time  unconscious ;  but 
at  last  I  returm^d  to  myself,  remembered 
where  I  was,  and  stru'j;i;led  to  my  feet  just 
in  time  to  see  her  pass  leaning  on  the  .arm 
of  the  man  whom  I  had    struck  ;    ami    he 
looked  at  her,  and  spoke  to  her,  in  a  way 
that  made  me  mad  with  jealousy.      That 
little  adventure  cost  me  a  very  ugly  mark 
on  my  face,  which  lastod  for  some  days,  and 
I)revented  me  from  appearing  before  her, 
though  I  watched  her  in  secret.     Anotlu!r 
night  I  stood  near  the  door  when  she  came 
oiit.     It  had  rained ;  and  the  pavement  be- 
tween her  and  her  carriage  was  dam[),  —  too 
damp  for  her  satin-shod  feet  to  touch.    I 
saw  her  glance  of  perple.Nity  ;  and,  (piiek  as 
thought,  I  threw  my  mantle  on  the  ground 
for  her  to  step  upon.     She  looked  at  me 
with  the  swe(!test  expression  of  gratitude, 
and   thanked   mo    cordially,  bowing,  and 
bowing  again,  as  the  carriage  drove  away. 
Then  I  was   inexpressibly  hajjpy.     I  was 
encouraged.     I  even  dared  to  hope  that  I 
might  yet  be  allowed  t(j  play  in  her  pres- 
ence.   I  felt  confident,  that,  if  she  only  knew 
of  my  desire,  she  would  grant   it.     I  was 
sure  that  she  was  so  kind  she  would  not 
refuse  me.     All  night  I  lay  awake  thinking 
it  over ;  and  at  dawn  I  eominenced  a  care- 
fully-worded letter,  telling  her  of  my  past 
I  disai)pointments  and  sorrows,  my  jn-esent 
!  experience,  and  my  ardent  desire  that  she 
I  should  hearme  play;  and  finished  by  im- 


<ll 


118 


EVERY   STRING  BROKEN. 


plovinj;  lier  that  she  would  Ri-aiit  me  per- 
mission at  her  earliest  convcnienee.  This 
note  I  coiK'eak'd  in  an  ex(iui»itc  l)ou(iuut 
which  I  sunt  her  that  nij^ht.  Then  I 
waited  (Uiy  after  day  for  iin  answer,  but 
none  came.  At  last  I  could  endure  my 
suspense  no  lon<;er,  and  resolved  to  make 
one  hold  stroke  —  to  succeed  or  die,  to  speak 
to  her,  to  receive  either  permission  or  re- 
fusal fron\  her  own  lips.  I  was  sure,  if  I 
could  but  ff\h\  her  ear,  I  could  make  my 
"  Stradivarius "  speak  to  her  heart,  and 
compel  her  to  acknowled<;o  the  divine 
superi(jrity  of  genius.  At  last  my  chance 
came,  after  mwh  waiting  and  watehin;.'. 
The  door  of  the  green-room  was  partially 
open  ;  and  she  sat  quite  alone,  with  a  half 
pensive  smile  on  her  lips,  waiting  her  call. 
Holding  my  heart  in  a  tight  grasp,  and 
struggling  hard  for  composure,  I  entered 
quietly.  She  did  not  see  me  until  I  stood 
before  her.  Then  she  rose  up  haughtily, 
and  looked  at  me  with  stern  inquiry ;  hut 
mv  agitation  evidently  disarmed  her,  and 
moved  her  heart  to  pity,  for  she  said 
gently,  "  Are  you  aware  that  you  are 
intruding?" 

"  Yes,  madame,"  I  stammered  ;  "but  some- 
times unfortunate  subjects  are  obliged  to 
resort  to  stratagem  to  present  a  petition  to 
sovereignty." 

She  smiled  half  compassionately,  half 
scornfully,  and  said,  «  Well,  what  is  your 
petition  V" 

"  That  I  may  be  allowed  to  play  in  your 
presence." 

"  Ah  1  I  rcnunnber :  you  are  Signor 
Tatrizio,  the  violinist  who  scut  me  a  letter 
in  a  bouquet." 

I  couhl  only  bow :  my  emotion  choked 
my  voice.  Still  she  looked  at  me  with 
clear,  searching  eyes,  and  a  smile  of  min- 
gled pity  and  curiosity.  "  Sit  ilown,"  she 
said  at  last,  pointing  to  a  chair, "  and  don't 
look  as  though  you  were  afraid  of  me. 
Am  I  so  dreadful  that  you  should  tremble 
in  my  presence  V  " 

"  No,  madame,"  I  almost  sobbed  :  "  you 
are  too  good." 

"  Do  you,  then,  play  so  well  that  you 


think  it  will  be  a  pleasure  for  me  to  hear 
you  ?  " 

"  You  must  judge  of  my  merit  yourself: 
that  your  judgment  may  be  favorable  is 
my  only  hope." 

<'  Perhaps  you  wish  for  an  engagement 
through  my  inlluence." 

"  No,"  I  replied,  gaining  courage  from 
her  gentle  tone.  "  I  wish  to  speak  to  your 
heart  through  my  violin." 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  smiling  softly,  '•  then 
you  are  a  troubadour  as  well  as  a  knight- 
errant  Y  " 

I  started  with  astonishment.  How  liad 
she  learned  of  the  mad  attack  that  had 
resulted  so  disastrously  for  ine  'I  She  no- 
ticed my  confusion,  and  smiled  indulgently. 
"  Your  motive  was  good,  no  doubt ;  but 
you  are  too  impulsive  :  don't  expose  your- 
self to  ridicule.  We  nmst  all  submit  to 
many  things  we  can't  avoid." 

"  6  madame  !  I  would  give  my  life  lor  you, 
and  count  it  a  joy,"  I  cried,  looking  into 
her  eyes  with  all  my  passion  concentrated 
in  a  glance. 

She  returned  my  jraze  fixedly,  while  an 
inexplicable  expression  flickered  over  her 
face,  and  ended  in  a  light  laugh,  as  she 
said,  "  Nonsense,  my  poor  enthusiast  1  the 
days  of  chivalry  are  passed  ;  and  it  is  no 
longer  necessary  to  die  to  show  your  devo- 
tion. Be  reasonable  and  prudent ;  that  is 
the  better  way  to  i)rove  it." 

A  great  ball  seemed  to  rise  in  my  throat; 
rushing  waters  surged  in  my  ears;  my 
heart  iroze  with  fear  and  suspense.  Would 
she  refuse  me  ?  All  my  destiny  depended 
on  that  moment,  all  my  future  weal  or  woe. 
At  last  my  strength  failed,  something 
seemed  to  break  within  me ;  and  I  was  on 
the  point  of  falling  at  her  feet,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  a  call-boy  entered. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  rising,  while  her 
glance  still  lingered  upon  me. 

"  Then  I  cannot  see  you  again  V  I  may 
not  play  for  you  V  "  I  cried  desperately. 

"  Yes,  yes  I  be  calm,"  she  said  softly : 
"you  may  come  to  my  house  Sunday  even- 
ing at  nine  o'clock ;  but  learn  to  control 
yourself,  and  don't  act  like  a    madman," 


L 


e  for  me  to  hear 

\y  merit  yourself: 
'  be  favorable  is 

r  an  engagement 

ng  eouragc  from 
,  to  speak  to  your 

ing  softly,  "then 
veil  as  a  knight- 

ment.  How  had 
attack  that  had 
jr  me  ?  She  no- 
nilcd  Indulgently. 
.1,  no  doubt ;  but 
on't  expose  your- 
lust  all  submit  to 
.id." 

ive  my  lite  ibr  you, 
Tied,  looking  into 
sion  concentrated 

fixedly,  while  an 
lliekered  over  her 
;ht  laugh,  as  she 
)r  enthusiast  1  the 
«sed  ;  and  it  is  no 

0  show  your  devo- 
i  prudent ;  that  is 
t." 

rise  in  my  throat; 
in  my  ears ;  my 
suspense.  Would 
destiny  depended 
iture  weal  or  woe. 
failed,  something 
ne ;  and  I  was  on 
ler  feet,  when  the 
loy  entered. 
,  rising,  while  her 

1  me. 

ou  again?  I  may 
ed  desperately. 
"  she  said  softly : 
)use  Sunday  even- 
t  learn  to  control 
like  a    madman," 


EVERY  STRING  BKOKEN 


119 


i 


then  she  held  out  her  little  \»hite  hand  as 
she  turned  away.     I  seized   it  almost  sav- 
agely, and  [jtessed  it  over  and  over  to  my 
burning  lips.     O  my   God  I  even  now,  in 
the  cold  and  darkness,  struck  with  a  mor- 
tal chill,  at  the  thought  of  that  soil  warm 
hand    touching    mine,   the    blood    rushes 
through  my  brain  with  the  force  of  seetli- 
inff  lava.     For  a  moment  she  allowed  it  to 
reniaiu  in   my  clasp,  like  a  trembling,  im- 
jirisoned   bird;   then    she  drew   it  gently 
away,  with  a  look  that  left  me  blind,  dizzy, 
and   faint,  and   passed  through   the  door 
without   another  word.     For   a  moment  I 
gazed  after  bcr  stui)idly ;  then  I  turned,  and 
nished  wildly  out?  making  my  way  through 
the  crowd  in  the  corridor  almost  at  a  bound. 
Iklany  looked   after   me,  and   many    cried, 
"  He  is  mad  ;  "  but  I  did  not  hi-ed  tliein.   In 
an  instant   I  was   in   the  almost  deserted 
streets.     I  do  not   know  what  passed  that 
night  between  the  wind  and  me  :   my  i'eet 
did  not  touch  the   earth,  my  body  seemed 
to  mount  to  the  sky,  and  turn,  and  float  in 
a  whirlwind  of  bliss.     Tlie  stars  looked  at 
me  as  though  they  knew  my  secret,  and  re- 
joiced with  me.    I  saw  the  promise  of  my 
happiness    written   upon   the   heavens   in 
letters  of  fire.     All   night  long  1  drank  in 
the  vapors  and  the  wind  to  cool  my  fever. 
1  bared   my   head   to  the  cold  dews,  and 
wandered  I  know  not  whither.     When  the 
dawn  came,  chill  and  gray,  1  found  myself 
at  my  door,  and  in  my  room,  where  1  threw 
myself  on   my  bed,  and  slept  stujjidly  tor 
hours,  exhausted  by  my  emotion.     When  1 
awoke  I  was  cool  and  calm  ;  my  frenzy  was 
subdued,  and  reason  asserted  itself;  yet  I 
never   asked  whether  this  woman   had  a 
heart  or  not,  whether  she  felt,  or  acted  a 
part  toward  me.     In  fact,  I  did  not  stop  to 
think,  I  only  knew  that  I  adored  her :  the 
delicious  tones  of  her  voice,  the  transpar- 
ency of  her  color,   the   dreamy  shadows 
that  floated  in  her  lovely  eyes,  her  smile 
full  of  mysterious  sweetness,  enchanted  me 
to  such  a  degree  that  I  saw  and  felt  noth- 
ing beyond ;   and  to   merit  my  happiness, 
J  was  capable  of  any  thing,  —  any  madness, 
any   folly.    I  felt  an    imperious    need   to 


serve  her,  to  perform  some  impossiitility  to 
show  my  devotion,  to  die  fur  her  if  I  iiii.dit : 
tiir,  from  the  moment  wlien  1  loved  licr  lor 
the  first  time,  I  lelt  that  I  was  no  l()M'j:<'r 
master  of  iiiVM'lf;  that  I  was  coiii|Uen'd  and 
t'nslaveo.  fallen  into  a  servitude  from  which 
I  could  never  again  be  Iree. 

She   had   said  that  I  could  come  on  Sim- 
day  evening,  and  this  was  Friday.     Wliat 
an  eternity  it  seemed  until  then  I    Howi-vei', 
I  passed  the  time  in  rehearsing  over  and 
over  the  composition  that  I  was  to  play, —  tiie 
song  without  words,  that  was  to  express  all 
my  adoration,  all  my  ])assion.     At  last  the 
moment  came  when  I  stood  trembling  belbre 
her  door,  with  my  violin  jm-ssed  close  to  my 
heart,  that  it  might  listen  to  its  wild  beating, 
and  interpret  it  aright.     She  was  alone,  and 
how   lovely,  —  how   angelically   lovely,  in 
the  subdued  light   of  her  room  !    Flowers 
bloomed  around  her,  and  filled  the  air  with 
their   intoxicating    perfume ;    soft  carpets 
deadened  the  step ;  golden  silk  ami  creamy 
lace  covered  dooi-s  and  windows ;  and  she, 
the  saint  of  that  (juiet  shrine,  smiled  upon  me 
as  I  entered,  —  I  tht;  poor,  ugly  man,  pale, 
embarrassed,   and   shaking  like  an    aspen 
with  suppressed  emotion.     For  a  moment  1 
thought  my  agitation  would  overcome  me  ; 
but  she  said  sweetly,  "  Do  not  fear,"  and  I 
was  strong  in  an  instant.     At  first  tin)idly 
and  hesitatingly  my  instrument  confessed  my 
admiration,  tlien  my  devotion,  then  my  ad- 
oration :  it  expressed  every  shade  of  feeling 
from  the  moment  when  I  had  first  seen  her, 
until,  beside  myself  with  joy,  I  had  rushed 
I'rom  her  presence  to  pour  out  my  rapture 
to  the   winds  of  night.    I  went  through 
every   phase   of  passion,  pensive,   tender, 
dreamy,  voluptuous,  sweet  and  delicate  as 
a  silver  rivulet  flowing  through  wind-shaken 
reeds  ;  then,  rising  and  gathering  strength 
and  force,  I  concentratetl  all  my  soul,  my 
heart,  my  desire,  my  life,  into  one  frenzied, 
passionate  outburst  that  left  me  weak  and 
trembling  before  her.    Through  all.  my  gaze 
was  fixed  upon  her  face;  and  with  every 
change,  every  gra<lation  of  sound,  I  saw  hei 
eyes  grow  dreamy,  or  light  up  with  enrap- 
tured fires,  her  lips  quiver,  her  bosom  heave 


120 


KVERY   STIllNG  BROKKN. 


'I 


licv   color   ('Diiu'  ivml  fro.  until    at  liitit   licr 
lifiiil  SMiik  tl)i'waiil  on  licf  hiviist,  her  hands 
ti'll  lan;,'ni(ll_v,    tin-   liils   ilroopiMl  ovi'v  Ikt 
swi'i't  I'ji's,  U'iirs  rolli'd  :<l()wly  down   lii-r 
clucks,  and  a  (hint,  snppivssi'd  sob  tell  on 
my  far.     I  had  \rorkid  my  spell :  thi'  mys- 
tiTions  ])owcr  (il';:;i'nnis  had  con(|UC'ri'd.     I 
had  spoken  to  her  heart,  and  she  was  mine. 
In  an  instant  I  was  on  my  knees  hel'ore  her, 
kis>in;;  lur  l'eet,her  c're:s,  her  hands  wildly. 
In  a  I'mit  ot'raptnre.  I  clasped  her  unresist- 
in"  form  to  mv  lieart :  I  (uinld  have  stilli^d 
her  with  my  kisses.     I  could  have  crushed 
her  in  my  cmhraec.     I  was   mad   to  con- 
lunuil  her  with  myself,  her  breath  with  my 
l)re;i|h,  her  lite  with  mine.     Shu  lUd  not  re- 
cist  ;  sho  loved  me  ;  and  the  truth  was  more 
fhiin  my  (('eble  mind  could  endure.  Sudden- 
ly the  violence  of  my  transi)ort  i^avo  place 
to   a  sorrowful   tenderness.     My    Hlee|)in;^ 
reason  awoke  with  a  terrible  bound,  and  1 
saw  myself  as  I  was  :   her  an;;elic  good- 
ness overwhelmed  me.   What  was  I  thai  she 
should  love  me  'j     Humiliated  and  crushed 
beneath  my  uuworthiness,  I  fell  at  her  feet, 
and,  leaning  my  head  upon   her  knees,  I 
buried  my  face  in  lier  robe  and  sobbed  aloud. 
At  that   moment  a  harsh,    mocking  voice 
cried   close  to   my   ear,    "Ha!    ha!    ha! 
another  llizzio.    By  my  faith,  Helena,  when 
will  you  bo  done  with  this  cursed  lolly  V  " 
Before  I  couhl  turn  my  head,  a  strong  liand 
jerked  me  violently  to  my  t'eet ;  and  I  stood 
face  to  fiice  with  the  man  I  bad  struck  in 
the  lobby  of  the  theatre. 

'•  What  pantomime  is  this  ?  "  he  cried  in 
a  voice  hoarse  with  rage.  "  What  are  yon 
doing  at  this  lady's  feet,  you  black,  foreign 
rascal  ?  Do  you  see  the  door l'  Then  take 
yom-  devilish  liddle,  and  march,  or  I'll 
bi-eak  every  bone  in  your  body  with  it." 

Then  a  voice  as  nmsical  as  a  crystal  bell, 
broke!!  with  a  ripple  of  laughter,  said  half 
imiiloringly,  half  scornfully,  "  For  Heaven's 
sake,  Charles,  let  the  poor  fellow  al(jne !  he's 
doing  no  harm,  and  he  plays  like  an  angel. 
His  nmsic  made  ">'■  (brget  where  I  was.  I 
declare,  I  don':  'new  whether  he  was  at 
niv  feet  or  not." 


as  loni'  as  vou  have  vour  fot)t  or  some  one's 
neck:  it's  all  the  sanm  to  you  whether  it's 
a  mad  fiddler  oi'  a  ])rince.  if  he  only  has  a 
heart  t(>r  you  to  crush.  I  am  tired  of  thiu 
fidly  :  1  swear,  I  am." 

Then  that  mocking  laugh  smote  my 
eara"ain,  and  a  fren/y  took  po.ssession  of 
my  soul :  mad,  blind  with  rage,  I  threw  my- 
self upon  the  man,  and  dashed  him  to  the 
floor  as  though  he  were  a  wisp  of  straw, 
siezed  my  violin,  |)ressed  it  to  my  heart 
with  a  crushing  embrace;  and  crying  at 
the  top  of  my  voice,  "  Come,  my  oidy  mis- 
tress, let  us  leave  this  accursed  jilac.e : 
death  and  damnation  to  the  false-hearted 
and  cruel!"  1  rusheil  Irautieally  from  the 
room,  and  never  stopped  until  I  reached 
the  open  air. 

After  that,  I  cannot   tell   clearly  what 
hap|)ened.     I  have  a  vague  recollection  of 
tearing    wildly    through    the    streets,   my 
violin  pressed  to  my  heart,  without  seeing, 
without  knowing,  where  I  was  or  whither 
I   was   "oing.       Some   one   called,   '■  Stop 
thief! "  and  grasped  me  by  the  skirt  of  my 
coat.     I  broke  away,  and  3i)ed  on,  hearing 
but  not  understanding.     I  thought  only  of 
that  woman,  whose  kisses  still  rested  upon 
my  lips  like  a  smarting  burn  :  neither  frost, 
nor  wind,  nor  rain,  could  cool  them.  And  I 
cried  with  piercing  tones,  in  a  sort  of  sav- 
age transport,  "  I  lield  her  in  my  arms,  1 
kissed  her  lips,  and  I  have  had  enough  of 
poison  :  her  tears  were  poison,  her  kisses 
were  poison."     T'hc  sound  of  my  voice  re- 
stored me  to  consciousness.     I  paused,  and 
leaned    against    a    wall.      Accidentally    I 
touched  a  string  of  my  violin  :   it  wailed 
pitifully,  as  though  1  had  hurt  it,  and  then 
died   away  into   silence  with   a  lingering 
'plaint  like  a  human  being  in  pain.     Where 
was  I  ?     Who  was  I  ?     There  was  once  a 
Giulio  Patrizio  who  had  worshipped  music 
and  fame  and  countr}-,  —  who  had  loved  a 
woman  with  a  divine  love ;  but  I  was  not 
he.     This  man  had  hoped  with  the  eternal 
courage  of  a  man's  heart,  had  trusted  with 
a  hoi}'  trust ;  but  I,  who  stood  alone  under 
the  night,  did  neither.    I  was  not  he:  I  was 


^;o  :  you  never  know,  nor  care,  Helena, !  a  black  shadow,  hurled  here  and  there  by 


KVEKY   STIUNO   liUOKKN. 


121 


I'cKJt  or  (ioiiic  r)iii''s 

you  whctlier  it's 

.  if  lie  only  lias  « 

.  iiiii  tirud  of  tUiu 

iiui^li  sinoto  my 
)ok  jHi.-isoMsiou  of 
riigf,  I  threw  iiiy- 
aslied  him  to  llio 
11  wisp  of  straw, 
1  it  to  my  heart 
' ;  ami  eryin;^  at 
juie,  my  only  mia- 
aecurseil  jihice  : 
the  false-hearted 
intieally  from  the 
1  until  I  reached 

tell   clearly  what 
ue  reeollectiou  of 
the    !-treets,    luy 
i-t,  without  seeing, 
I  was  or  whither 
ine   called,   '■  Stop 
by  the  skirt  of  my 
1  3i)ed  on,  hearing 
I  thought  only  of 
s  still  rested  upon 
urn :  neither  frost, 
I  cool  them.  jVnd  I 
I,  in  a  sort  of  sav- 
Lier  in  my  anus,  1 
ve  had  enough  of 
poison,  her  kisses 
id  of  my  voice  re- 
:ss.     I  paused,  and 
i.      Accidentally    I 
'  violin  :   it  wailed 
1  hurt  it,  and  then 
;  with    a   linifcrinir 
ig  in  pain.     Where 
There  was  once  a 
1  worshipped  music 
—  who  had  loved  a 
>ve ;  but  I  was  not 
ud  with  the  eternal 
't,  had  trusted  with 
I  stood  alone  under 
[  was  not  he :  I  was 
here  and  there  by 


a  tempi'st  of  passion.      Somethin-   passed  ' 
in  the  air  :  a  voice  seemed  to  say,  •'  Your  , 
country!  vou  have  still  a  country."     And: 
1    answered   aloud,   looking   at   the   stars, 
"  (iiulio  ratrizio   is   dead."      A  windmill 
seemed  to  turn  ever  and  I'ver  before  me, ! 
and  its  sails  were  tresses  of  golden  hair;j 
and,  looking   at  it,  I  said  again,  "(linlio 
Patrizio  is  dead,"     I  cannot  be  he :    it  is 
impossible.     The   streets,  the  passers,  the 
skv,  the   stars,  my  thoughts,  my  recollec- 
tions, —  all  sei'uied  impossible  ;  and  nothing 
that  1  saw  wiinin  or  beyond  myself  seemed 
real.     The  world  was  but  a  hideous  harle- 
(uiin,  that   changed   shape  and  color  each 
moment.     Then  1  laughed  loudly  and  bit- 
terlv,  and  said  again,   '^  am  not   (Jiulio 
Patrizid."     A  few  nights  before,  I  had  wan- 
dered   until    <lawn,  wild  with  joy,  restless 
with  a  new-born  hope,  believing  that  the 
iiromise  of  mv  happiness  was  written  upon 
the  heavens  in  letters  of  fire.      Now  the 
glowing  characters  are  blotted  out.  and  a 
pall  hau'is  between  me  and  the  stars.     A 
j„an   cannot   change   in   a    moment;    the 
world  cannot  change  in  an  hour;  and,  after 
all,  1  am  not  he :  I  am  not  Giulio  Patrizio. 
It  has  been  three  days  since,  and  1  have 
walked  and  talked  like  other  men.     I  have  j 
remembered  all  with  a  wonderful  distinct- 
ness, even   to  the  minutest   emotion  that 
has  stirred  my  heart.     I  have  written  this 
clearly  and  calmly,  without  a  Haw  or  break 
in  mv  memory ;  and  yet  I  am  not  myself. 
I  am'not  Giulio  Patrizio :  his  soul  is  in  his 
violin ;  and  it  has  wept,  and  moaned,  and 
ra.'ed  with  sorrow.    It  has  throbbed  with 
such  passion,  that  every  string  but  one  is 


broken,  and  on  that  l.«t  .•..id  han-s  my 
life:  when  tliiil  snaps,  my  iieart  will  bivak, 
iin.l  all  will  eii.l.  You  will  say  tliat  it  was 
afoUvt..  l..veher:  if  s..,  it  was  a  sublime 
folly;  for  il  was  hi'r  beauty  I  worsliii)pe<l, 
an.i  that  .vas  real  an.l  .livin...  I  was  not 
more  untijrtunate  than  others  in  b.hig  «le- 
ceive.l:  the  misfortune  was  in  knowing  it; 
for  all  the  world  is  decepli.m.  ami  all  man- 
kind self-deceivers,  inasniu.h  as  lliey  be- 
lieve in  such  a  sentim.nt  as  truth.  Tlwy 
tlunmht  I  was  ma.l :  1  m;iy  bav.'  b.'.'n  ;  Ibr 
who  can  t.'U  whether  he  himself,  or  all  the 
worl.l  besi.les,  is  ma.!'.'  Surely  I  was  i„.t 
like  others.  Is  it.  tbeii.  a  pn.of  that  I  was 
mad?  IdonotkiDw;  I  .■ami.. t  say ;  and, 
alter  all,  I  am  not  (iiulio  Patrizio. 


COPIED   FUOM   MY  JOURNAL. 

Jan.  21.  — 1   have    just    retnrn.'.l    from 
following  that  unhappy  man   (.)  his  burial, 
ami  my  heart  is  sa.l.ler  than  I  like  it  to  be 
at  the  death  of  a  stran-er.     I   have  given 
hun  a  most  respectable  funeral,  —  a  rose- 
w...)<l  casket,  (lowers,  and   carriages;    II.)- 
ratio  and  I  as  mourners;  an.l  a  grave   in 
„,y  own  lot  at  Green W00.1.     I  have  d.,ne 
th'is,  not  only  out  of  pity  ibr  the  poor   fel- 
low, but  because  I   felt   obli-ed   to  in   i^e- 
turn  for  the  "  Stra.livarius,"  whi.'h  I  shall 
always  keep  just  as  he  left  it,  with  every 
string  broken.     It  seems  to  me  too  sacred 
lor  other  hands  to  profane  with  a  touch. 
To-morrow  I  shall  move.     I  cannot  remain 
here  any  longer ;  for  every  night  I  fancy  I 
hear  that  strange,  unearthly  music  in  the 
room  above. 


-  .dW>iSjWWIMIl"-W>tf".l'"^*"' 


A   DOMESTIC   TRAGEDY. 


Dii.  Warden    sat    in  Jano  Herbert's 
coacy  l)ruaktlist-room,  waiting;  tt>r  her  to 
come  down.     It  was  early,  the  mornin-  was 
dan.i.  Hu.l  eol.l,  and  he  was  a  little  cross : 
therefore  lie  did  not  like  to  l)e  detaine.l, 
althon-h    the    lire   was    bright,   and    the 
"  Times  "  lav  temptingly  near.    "  1  thought 
Bhe  was  an  early  riser,"  he  said  solilo.iuiz- 
i„.rly ;  "and  here  it's  nine  o'eloek,  my  pa- 
tients wailing,  and  my  lady  not  yet  out  of 
her  chamber.    I  would  have  come   after 
dinner,  and  prol)al)ly  it  would  have  done 
just  as  well,  if  she  hadn't  sent  for  me  to  be 
here  the  first  thing  this  morning.    Mary 
savs  she  isn't  sick;  then,  what  in  the  worl.l 
can  she  want  of  me  so  early  ?  "    Ju-st  then 
the  object  of   his    thoughts  entered    the 
room,  — a  little   plain,  pale   woman;  with 
yellow  hair,  {j^ntle   blue  eyes,  and   long, 
li.rht  lashes :  she  was  dressed  in  a  gray 
wrapper,    with    a    white    breakfast-shawl 
folded  around  her  as  though  she  were  cold 
Although  she  was  plain,  she  was  not  uniu 
teresting,  -  a  mild,  delicate  creature,  with  a 
sweet  voice,  and  timid,  appealing  glance. 

"  Ah,  doctor  1  how  good  of  you  to  come 
80  early  !  "  she  said,  giving  him  her  httle 
thin  hand,  which  he  crushed  like  a  rose- 
leaf  in  his  strong  clasp.  "  I'm  very  sorry  to 
have  kept  you  waiting:  I  didn't  intend  to, 
gbc  continued  deprecatingly ;  "but  Mary 
didn't  wake  me,  because  I  had  rather  a 
sleepless  night,  thinking  gf  it  all.  1  hope 
you  won't  mind  :  you  can  take  your  break- 
fast while  I  tell  you." 

"Thank  you.  I  breakfasted  nearly  two 
hours  ago,"  replied  the  doctor  gruffly.  "  It's 
my  patients  I'm  thinking  of:  they  suffer 


from  my  waiting,  not  me.  But  what  in  tho 
worl.l  w  the  important  news  ?  Tell  me  as 
(piickly  as  possible,  for  1  must  lie  off." 

"You  could  never  imagine,"  she  said 
with  a  little  shy  smile.  "  It's  s.uh  good 
news,  so  very  g.K.d  1  1  had  a  letter  last 
ni.'ht.  It  was  ten  o'clock  when  it  came  : 
that's  why  I  sent  so  late  lor  you  to  come 

this  morning."  , ,    ,    , 

"  Strange  1  very  strange,"  grumbled  the 
doctor,  "for  you  to  get  a  hotter;  and 
stranger  still,  to  send  at  eleven  o'clock  at 
night"  to  tell  me  to  come  here  this  morning 
to  be  informed  of  the  fact." 

"  O  doctor  I  don't  laugh  at  me,"  she  said 
imploringly;  "but  you  won't,  when  you 
know  who  it's  irom.  It's  Iroui  Allen,  she 
added  triumphantly:  "he's  got  his  dis- 
charge, and  he's  coming  home." 

«  A— h  1 "  and  the  doctor's  countenance 
fell  suddenly :  "  you  call  that  good  news,  do 

"  Certainly,"  she  sahl  with  a  little  sur- 
prise. "  Why,  I've  not  seen  him  for  six 
years;  and  I've  not  heard  from  him  since 

father  died." 

"More  shame  to  him,  then,  the  good-tor- 
nothing  scapegrace ! " 

«  O  doctor  1"  cried  Jane,  holding  up  her 
hands,  "  pray  don't  8[)eak  so  of  him." 

"  It's  the  truth :  it's  (iod's  truth  !  "  re- 
turned the  doctor  wrathfully.  "  I  say  his 
very  silence  and  indillerence  helped  kill 
your  father.  I  know  more  about  it  than 
you  do.  Didn't  he  take  that  boy,  only  a 
cousin's  child,  and  bring  him  up  as  though 
he  were  his  own  son  ;  educate,  and  care  for 
him  with  a  most  remarkable  interest :  and 


123 


124 


A   DOMRSTIC  TUAOKnY. 


i 


>  Hit 


i* 


wlicn  111-  L">t  iilil  I'nniiuli  to  he  !ui  honor  iiiul 
foiiilnri  to  liiiii,  wliiit  iliil  111-  iloY" 

"lie    wa.-i    !<o    \;nw^    llifii!"    i)liMilt'il 

Jiini'. 

'•  So  voiiiii  !  I  iIom'I  cull  iitniin  (if  twi'iity- 
onc  a  .liiM  liy  Miiy  iiiiMn-".  II>'.  was  too 
(,li|  to  Ifiiil  11  lill'  of  (li^^<i|^allon,  lo  s.|iiiiii- 
(liT  money  lis  llioiiili  it  wen;  dirt,  uiul  to 
jfcl  into  nil  f^ort^  of  mtmiics.  1  siiy,  if  he 
was  iKhiM.  lit' >lioiiM  liavc  lia.l  tin!  tastt•^< 
of  a  iliil'l.  Tliink  of  wliiit  it  cost  your 
fatlu'r  to  i.ay  lis  ilfl.ts,  -.'I't  liis  dislioiioralili- 
(IcimIs  covi'ri'.l  ii]).  anil  start  liiiii  fair  iiillio 
navy.  You  don't  know  wlutlicr  liis  lif.-'s 
bi'iMi  lionoiahli"  or  not  ilii'Sf  last  six  years, 
bi'eanse  lie's  tu'on  in  forei^^Mi  nervici!  all  the 
time.  However,  as  we'vi!  heard  notliin'.' 
B'.'ainst  him,  we'll  give  him  tho  benefit  of 
the  d(inl)l." 

"  1  know  he's  .  tianired."  cried  .Tane 
easerly:  "he's  been  very  dilferent  since 
that  last  serajM!." 

"You  know  a  crrcat  deal  about  it,"  re- 
turned till'  doctor  Mivindy,  "  vdien  he  hasn't 
even  taken  the  troulilo  to  write  K)  you  since 
vour  father  died;  and  didn't  write  to  him 
"when  he  was  liviiej;,  which  made  the  poor 
8oul  miserable  in  his  la*t  hours.  Didn't  he 
It- ov  your  fatlier  was  breaking  uji,  and 
th.-.t  his  letters  wouhl  have  been  a  comfort 
to  himV  I  declare,  it  made  me  hale  him, 
when  I  used  to  hear  the  poor  dyinj;  man 
ask  until  th.'  very  last,  '  Any  letters  from 
Allen?'  then  his  pathetic  look  of  disap- 
pointment, when  he  was  told  '  No '  over  and 
over.  1  never  can  for-i't  it,  and  I  don't 
want  to.  I  want  to  remember  such  ingrati- 
tude and  heartlessness." 

"  Please,  don't  say  he  was  heartless," 
cried  Jane  imploringly:  "he  never  was 
heartless:  he  was  only  thoughtless;  and  he 
was  so  far  away,  that  he  didn't  undcrstaml 
how  ill  lather  was." 

"  Yes :  you  can  make  excuses  for  him,  as 
you  always  did.  You  have  a  tender  spot 
in  vour  heart  for  him  even  yet." 

"  Oh,  no  !  pray,  don't  say  that.     .Tt's  all 
over :  it  was  over  long  ago.     I  love  Allen 
as  a —  as  a  brother  now." 
"Jane  Ilerliert.  I'll  tell  you  the  truth. 


It's  a  duty  I  owe  to  you  and  to  your  dead 

father,     it's  a  soleinii  duly  to  tell  you  the 

truth    before    il's    too    late.      That    s.anip 

is  eoniin.;  Iiack  to  wheedle  yoin- Ibrliiiie  out 

of  you.     Now  your  father's  ._'"ne,  he's  sure 

that  it's  all  yours;  ami  he  remeniljcrs  what 

a  soil  heart  you  had  for  him.     <iod  ki'ows, 

I   had   hard   enou-li  work    to  kee|i  ii   from 

him.     If  I  hadn't  watched  youi    faiher  as 

sharp  as  a  cat  watches  a  mouse,  he  would 

hive  ciian','ed  his  will  at  the   last,  and   left 

him  the  half   Allliou.rh  he  s(iuandered  more. 

than  you  have,  before  ho  was  twenty-one,  I 

am  convinced  that  your  fuller  had  Hiich  a 

weakness  for  him,  that  he  would  have  ;;iveii 

him  the  remainder  if  1  hadn't  looked  out 

for  your  interest." 

"I  think  he  should  have  hail  somethhvi," 
said  Jane  stoutly;  tliou-h  she  was  frbiht- 
eneil  the  next  moment  at  having  dared  to 
disagree  with  the  doctor. 

"  You  do,  do  you  V  Well,  then,  jiive  him 
all ;  and  the  sooner  he  spends  it,  the  sooner 
vou'lV  get  rid  of  him.  <iive  him  your 
money,  and  marry  him  besides,  if  you  like  ; 
you're  yotu-  own  mistress;  but  don't  say  I 
didn't  warn  you." 

"  ()  doctor  !  how  can  you  be  so  cruel  ?  " 
cried  Jane  pitifullv.  '-.You  know  I  will 
never  marry  him  now :  once,  when  I  was 
younger,  I  might,  if  he  hadn't  been  so  wild  ; 
but  now  I'm  too  old,  —  I'm  thirty-live  in  a 
month,  and  he's  only  twenty-seven." 

"  No  more  dillerence  in  your  ages  than 
there  ever  was  :  you're  older,  he's  older ; 
you're  wiser,  you're  richer;  he  will  take 
that  instead  of  youth.  If  he  can't  get 
your  fortune  into  his  hands  in  any  other 
way,  he'll  want  you  to  marry  him :  you 
love  him  as  well   as   ever,  and  you'll   do 

it." 

"No,  no:  you're  mistaken,  you're  un- 
kind ;  you  don't  like  Allen  ;  you  never  did  ; 
and  you're  prejudiced  iigainst  him,"  re- 
turned Jane  hotly.  "What  would  you 
have  nie  do?  close  my  doors  against  one  ] 
love  like  a  brother,  and  atler  six  years' 
absence  too?  llemember  how  father  loved 
him.  Why,  he  would  be  angry  in  heaven, 
1  if  he  knew  1  did  such  a  thing ;  and,  besides, 


*) 


mill  ti>  your  ilfii'l 
ly  til  till  villi  tlio 
If.  Tiiiit  i<i'iiiii|> 
I!  your  t'cirtiine  out 
r'*  ijdiic,  lii''.s  Hiiro 
I'  ri'iiu'iiilifr.-'  wliiit 
liin.  (loil  l>i'i>ws, 
k  to  kri'|i  ii  I'liiiii 
fil  yiiiii  liiilii'r  !H 
II  inou-i',  lie  would 

till'  hist,  mill  Ift't 
('  s(|1iiiiu1*'1'imI  iniiro 
1  wiiH  twi'nty-onc,  I 

liiilii-r  li;iil  Hiicli  !i 
!•  wdiilil  liiivi!  ;:ivrii 
hiidn't  looki'il  out 

VI'  hail  Houu'thiivi," 
^li  j-lii-  w;is  I'riixlit- 
iit  liiiviiiL?  (iiiruil  to 

k'cll.  tlicii,  ^ivc  him 
puiiils  it,  till'  Soulier 
(iive  him  your 
ii'xiili'!!.  il'  you  liki' » 
ss;  but  tloii't  siiy  I 

you  bo  so  crunl  ?  " 
•.You  know  I  will 
;  onei',  when  I  wiw 
ladii't  lii.'1'u  M»wil(l; 
-  I'm  thirty-live  in  a 
^ciity-seven." 

ill  your  ajies  than 
•  older,  he's  older; 
eher;  ho  will  take 
.  If  lie  can't  <;et 
Hands  in  any  other 

0  inarry  him :  you 
;ver,  and  you'll   do 

istaken,  you'ro  un- 
llen  ;  you  never  diil ; 

1  against  him,"  rc- 
"  What  would  you 
doors  against  one  ] 

md  atU-r  six  years' 
her  how  father  loved 
be  angry  in  heaven, 
,  thing ;  anil,  besides, 


iW^MBSTIO  TnAOF.OY. 


1'2« 


I  rnn-ld.T  tlmt  Allen  lm«  i\  rinl"   '>••'•'• 
fathrr'^  adiipli'd  koii." 

'•Just  ll'*  yoii    iili-iice,"  "iii'l   '!"'     '" 
r.ildly.  IIS  he' took  up  his  hut  mid  -lnves. 


What  an        l.iiikin..' of.'     liy  Jove  t  wliero 
ar«mv  (..    .enl^'.'     'riiey'lh.ll  die  before   I 


,shetoo.upnismum  ..^      .         "  -     _     ,  ,„„^,  ,-.  .,„     ,; ,.„„„„ 

j^::::;;i;'."'i;t;;;:nJ;::s-^^^     ^v^■-■•>^"- -''-• '•^' 

h.'r   to   .i-iarrel  with   her  best  frieinl.  her 


f.itliev's    best    friend.   li«'r   tried    .'oiiiisell.ir 
and  "Hide.     Tliev  had  never  ilisa.Jtreed  mi 
any  mibieet  save  thi^.     Allen  was  .'omiiv.' 
liome.   Allen  must  enme  ;  bill  Jmie  did  not 
wish  hiin  to  eome  in  the  very  teeth  of  the 
doelor's  opposition.     She  wished  to  snioolli 
the  way.  to  si.ften  bis  pi-ejinliees,  to -et  his 
t'onseni.  if  not  hi"  approiiatinn.     No^v  she 
naw  that  she  bad  -one  too  far  in  di'lendii",' 
her  eoiisin  so  warmly  ;  that  the  doetor  was 
seriously  displeased,  and  that  she.  mii^t  use 
a   little"  feminine   tact   to   cmiciliati'   him. 
So,  as  he  was  tinnlii},'  to  go,  she  laid  her 
haml  on  his  arm.  mid  said,  while  sfie  looked 
into    his    face     appeaiin'.dy.   "You're     not 
unioL'    without    telliil'.;    ine    what     to     do  .> 
You've  only  blamed  me,  and  I  wanted  your 
advice." 


more  lime;"  ami,  ernsliiii'.'  her  binds  until 
die  almost  cried  with  pain,  he  nisbed  oiir 
of  the  room,  h'aviie.'  her  fn  wnmler  at  bis 
sudden  and  siran^'e  ileparlnre. 

It  was  early  moniiie.',  aluint  a  month 
niter  the  conversation  reeonled  iibiive.  and 
Jane   Herbert  sat  alone    in  her  breakfast- 

, 1,1.     She  held  till'  '•rimes  "  in  her  list- 

less  fni'.'crs,  but  she  was  not  reading';  Ibr 
her  mild  eyes  were  fixed  rclleclively  lipoU 
the  ulowhl'i  coals  in  the  jirale.  and  a  sniilo 
hallCad,  half-happy,  Imseied  round  her 
penile  niimili.  Tiie  table  was  spread  fir 
breakfast.  It  was  nearly  ten  n'elnek.  and 
yet  Jane  had  eaten  nothiii;,'.  W.is  she 
'wallin'.;V  or  was  she  absorbed  in  a  pleasant 
•everie?  She  was  wailiii'i  and  tbinkin^ 
iiitb.  Wailiu','  tbr  Allen,  who  never  eamo 
liiwn  early,  and  tliinkiii','  bow  happily  the 


^^;  Jane:   I've  not  blamed  you.  ami,  by    time   had  passed  s  nee  he  had  been  wu 
Heav  '  1  '     never  will,  let  what  may  come."    her.     Just  as  the  clmc  was  on  the,  s,  oke, 
he         t  r   in    a  strangely  agitated    of  ton,  the  door  was  thn.wn  open,  and  my 


voice.  "  It's  because  I  don't  want  to  sei 
you  wreteheil  that  I  speak  so  strongly.  1 
Jell  von.  if  be  comes  here,  he  will  rob  you 
.,„d"  break  your  heart.  My  advice  would 
be  to  close  your  doors  against  him,  and 
never  see  him';  but  I  can't  reasonably  expect 
vou  to  do  that,  lor,  alter  all,  he's  your 
cousin.  Still.  I  warn  you  against —doiii'j; 
anv  thing  tbr  him,  .a'iainst  marrying  him." 

•'  I  shall  never  marry  him."  interrupted 
J,,ne  resolutely.  -'I  shall  never  marry 
him.    Now  are  you  satisfied  V  " 

The  doctor  smiled  sce|lli(^'llly :  then, 
taking  her  hands  in  his,  he  looked  at  her 
long  "and  tenderly,  while  something  like 
tears  dimmed  his  eyes.  "  Poor  Jane,  poor 
little  woman  1  "  he  said  at  length  :  "  you 
mean  it  now,  no  doubt ;  but  you'll  not  be 
proof  aiainst  his  hamlsomc  face,  his  fasci- 
nating tricks.  You  know  my  interest  in  you 
ia  sincere  :  don't  blame  me  because  I  want  to 


.gentleman  entered  briskly, 

'  Jmie  looked  111)  wiih  a  sweet,  warm  smile 

as  he  eaiiie  behind  her  chair.    •'  I/.it.<'  again, 

you  naughty  boy." 

"Yes:   1    am   always    late,  Jennie;    but 

don't  scold  ;  "  and,  leaniiv,'  over  her.  he  took 

ber  fice  between  bis  hands,  ami  kissed  her 

aU'eetionati'ly. 

Jane  looked  like  any  thin.'  but  scolding, 
us  she  let  her  little  hand  rest  on  bis  head 
with  a  caressing  toui-h.  "  The  rolls  are 
colli,  and  the  colfee  is  spoiled," 

••.Never  mind;  I  can't,  eat,  ami  I  won't 
eat  tiiilil  you've  answered  ibe  ciiiestion  I 
asked  you  last  eveniic.'.  I've  not  slejit 
all  night  thinking  of  it.  Jane,  why  will 
you  torment  me  when  I'm  so  anxious. 
'Coine,  dear,  say  '  Yes  '  at  once  ;  "  and  he 
slipped  down  on  the  stool  before  her.  and 
took  her  hands  tightly  m  his.  '•  See,  here, 
I  am  at  vour  feet;  and  here  I  shall  remain 


U  sincere  :  don  t  )  ame  me  oecausu  i  "....>■  ^^ ,       ., 

"av  °you:     O  Jane.  J;u.e !  if  you  only  cared  I  until  you  say  you  wdl  be  my  wde.    Now, 


V2(\ 


A    DOMKrtTIO  TIIAUKDY. 


do  uny  it  nt  miri',  Ji-nnli',  Jut-uim)  I  w:iiit 
my  lirt'iiklii^l." 

I'lior.Iaiu'!  llic  Iniv^  lijjlit  IaAu-h  Ii'hI  llic 
iiiilil  cyc^* ;  till'  littli'  tliiii  liamli  tri'iiilili'il 
like  t'i'i;{lit)Mii'il  liiriU  ill  his  liolil  ('lan|i. 
Slic  lovfd  liiin;  hIii'  hail  iiIwuvh  IhvimI  him  ; 
iiiiii  liii)  fvU'*  of  hiT  hi'iirt  ilniwiu'il  tin- 
(l('i'|t,  (|iiii't  wiiniin;^  of  ri'iimiM.  IIi- w;is  j-o 
liaililMimr,   W)    |iri!*lllll«ivc,  III)    aHi't'linillltO  ; 

ln'  wiw  nil  f>hi'  hull  in  the  worM ;  )ht  icmhT 
lii'iirt  li)ii;:i'il  tlir   smiii    lUU'   tn    hivl-li    itx 

Wi'llllh  1)1'  liiVi-  ll|liill,       ''illrr  IliT  t'ltllfr  ilii'il 

t]u>  hiiil  I Ml'-     AiUii  WMx   cvrry  thiri'^ 

fi)  hiT.  Slu>  li;iil  told  till-  iliM  tiir  llmt  nIm- 
lnvi'il  him  iiM  a  lii'otlici' :  r<hi'  IimiI  tili'il  to 
think  ulie  iliil ;  hiil  now  hIiij  km^w  that  xhc 
lovfil  him  wiih  tln'  "love  of  love."  Hit 
liiMft  caiil  "  Yis  ;  "  hiT  ri'itMim,  "  No  ;  "  Imt, 
lookin}r  into  liin  liiinilfiotnt'  liit'i',  Aw  cloricil 
hi'iM'ai-8  to  ihi'ih'rp.,  ijuict  voii'i'.anil  li.tti'iicil 
to  this  IouiUt  crii  <  of  hiT  hfiirt.  "Speak, 
Jaiu',"  lio  m';;i'il,  |ircnsing  hur  hanils  mill 
niori!  closi'Iy. 

"  What  fan  I  say,  AUimV"  she  Haiil  at 
k-n^tli,  in  a  Ininlilinir,  irri'soliito  voin-. 
"  You  know  I  love  you  iloarly,  that  I've 
always  lovuil  you ;  nnil  I  hi'liovu  you  love 
nif  :  hm  is  it  lii'st  that  we  should  marry? 
Think  of  till'  ililVerenee  in  our  ages,  in  our 
tastuB  and  hahits." 

"  These  are  weak  oxeuscs,  Jane.  What 
does  a  few  v  ears  more  or  less  matter  to  me  V 
It's  all  the  sanio  whether  you  are  older  or 
younger.  1  love  jou  as  you  are.  Si.\  years 
ago  there  was  the  same  disparity.  You  did 
not  think  of  it  then:  why  should  you 
now  ?  " 

"  Hut  I'vo  changed  so  since  then.  I've 
grown  so  old,  so  very  insignificant  and 
plain." 

"  You're  not  plain :  you  never  were  plain  ; 
and  you  never  will  be  jilain  to  me."  Jane 
looked  at  liim  gratefully.  "  Haven't  I 
loved  you  faithfully?  Think  how  many 
years  I've  loved  you.  And  you  know  it 
was  your  father's  dearest  wish." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jane  earnestly,  "  it  was  : 
even  when  you  were  so  wild,  he  thought  it 
might  be  :  he  thought  if  you  were  married 
you  might  settle  down." 


"  I've  willed  ili»im  iviihoiit,  Jennto.  I'm 
a  rhaiiiied  mini,  %'liire  I  didn't  kno>f 
what  an  angel  vimi  were  ;  now  I  know  how 
to  appreeiate  yoii.  and  I  swuar  I'll  maku 
you  happy." 

"  I  don't  doiilil  "♦.  Allen ;  I'm  always 
happy  with  you:  hut  can't  w«)  Ix;  happy  as 
lirotlier  and  sUter  .'  " 

"  No,  we  ciin't.  The  world  won't  let  us. 
\Ve  don't  want  to  be  lirother  and  slsfi-r; 
anil,  by  .Fove  '  I'm  glad  we're  not.  IIo\r 
loll'.',  do  you  -iiippose,  before  peojile  wiiulil 
Ih'  gossippiiiL:  aUint  US  if  we  don't  marry? 
No :  I  ean'i  stay  here  unless  you're  my  wil'i- ; 
and  you  don't  want  to  si'iid  me  oil'  again 
to  wander  about  the  world  alone,  do 
yon  ?  " 

"  No,  Allen,  I  don't,  and  I  won't,"  »lio 
said,  her  eyes  filiiie/  with  tears  as  she  bent 
over  him.  "  I'm  a  poor,  little,  plain  thing, 
to  be  the  wife  of  n  s[>h>ndid  fellow  like 
you  :  but,  if  I  ean  make  you  happy,  myself, 
and  all  I  have,  is  yciiirs." 

Poor  little  woman !  she  didn't  suspect 
that  it  was  "all  she  had,"  and  not  "her- 
self," that  he  wanted.  When  this  sent  for 
Dr.  Warden,  and  told  him  with  fear  nnil 
trembling,  that,  in  sjiite  of  her  promise, 
she  had  resolved  to  marry  her  cousin,  the 
doctor  turned  very  pale,  like  one  who  hail 
received  a  mortal  blow  ;  and,  sinking  into 
a  chair,  he  covered  his  face,  and  remaineil 
silent  tor  a  long  time. 

Jane  looked  at  him  greatly  troubled. 
"  Arc  you  angry  ?  "  she  said  at  last. 

"  No,  no,  Jane ;  I'm  not  angry  :  I'm  hurt. 
Rut  I'm  a  fool  to  feel  it  so,  when  I  knew  it 
would  come ;  though  I  suppose  a  blow 
doesn't  hurt  any  the  less  because  we're 
[irepared  for  it.  It's  the  end  of  you.  It's 
the  end  of  every  tlung  for  me.  But  don't 
say  I  didn't  warn  you.  God  knows,  I'd 
have  saved  you  if  I  could." 

"  O  doctor  I  "  cried  Jane  entroatingly  : 
"  pray,  don't  speak  so  I  one  would  think  I 
was  about  to  sacrifice  all  my  future  happi- 
ness." 

"  That's  it ;  th.it's  just  what  you're  going 
to  dx  I  Ic'll  you  if  you  marry  him  your 
future's  ruined.    But  I  said,  before,  all  I 


.-^ 


wiiliDiit,  Ji'nnlc.  F'rii 
I'li-i'  F  iliilii'f  knit\r 
:  iiiiw  I  kiiDtv  liowr 
I  I  swc:ir  111  miiku 

Alliii  ;   I'm  nlwnyg 
•an't  WK  Iw  liuppy  nst 

ic  world  won't  iut  ii». 
roiInT  iiiul  xiifcr ; 
u\  wcVi'  not.  IIo\r 
lii'lorc  pcci|(l('  woiilil 
if  We  (liiri't  iimrry? 
iiiIi"<'<yoii'n'  my  wil'o  j 

0  scnil   iiK'  oil'  a'^'iiiii 
11'    worjil    iiloiii',    do 

't,  ftiid   I  won't,"  ftjio 

vitli  ti'iirs  us  slin  bi>nt 

r,  littlo,  plain  thin;^, 

[iK  iidid    ti'ilow    lik(! 

<ii  yon  liappy,  myHi'lf, 

I'X." 

1  hIic  didn't  xn^pcct 
liad,"  and   not  "  licr- 

Wlmn  t\w.  sent  for 
d  Idni  with  fear  and 
)it(!  of  Irt  [iromisi', 
narry  Iicr  cousin,  tho 
ilu,  lik(!  onu  who  had 
)w  ;  and,  .^inking  into 
s  fiR'C,  and  reniainuil 

im  greatly  troubled, 
lu  said  at  last, 
not  an^'ry  :  I'm  hurt. 
it  80,  when  I  knew  it 
l>  I  supposo  a  blow 
less  because  wo'ro 
the  end  of  you.  It's 
;  for  nw.  Hut  don't 
ou.  God  knows,  I'd 
uld." 

1  Jane  cntroatingly : 
I  one  would  think  I 
all  ray  future  happi- 

ist  what  you're  going 

you  marry  him  your 

I  said,  before,  all  I 


A  nOME«TIO  TRAOKDY. 


I'JT 


/' 


coiiM  nay;  and  It  wa«  unfli'-<.  Von  will 
ll.>l('n  til  yi>nr  heart,  Jane,  and  not  to  rea- 
son. Sii  thi're'H  iiidy  one  tiling  for  ine  to 
do.  I  sha'M't  liiithiT  you  with  any  roiiven- 
tional  wishes  for  your  ha[>pinesii ;  lint,  my 
t'hlld,  if  ever  you're  in  tmubU!  you'll  know 
where  to  ninie,  won't  yon?  Xow,  lillli' 
woman,  (jood-by,  and  kis^  inc  onre  lii'liire 
I  In^i' yon  llirevcr  J  for  you'll  never  be  the 
Kunie  Id  me  a;,'ain." 

.lane  was  about  to  reply;  but  ho  cla»|m(| 
her  tightly  in  IiIm  arniH,  and  kissed  her  over 
and  over  with  pa^slonati'  fervor.  Then, 
betbre  she  coiild  spe.ik,  In^  was  ^one,  and 
■he  was  alone.  Lon^  after  she  remem- 
bered that  moment,  —  how  bri;;hlly  the  sun 
shone  into  ilii>  rcMim,  the  si.'ent  of  the  mig- 
nonette that  Allen  hail  piled  into  a  vase 
un  the  niaiille,  the  eraekling  of  the  lire, 
the  song  of  a  rubin  outside,  telling  that 
spiing  had  rome,  mingled  with  the  voiee  of 
her  cousin  who  sang  a  tew  bars  of  "The  star- 
spangled  banner,"  in  the  adjoining  room,  — 
ii  straieje  medley  of  color,  sound,  and  feel- 
ing, that  smote  her  overburdened  heart, 
until  it  aclied  beyond  emluranee  I  Shu 
could  bear  no  more  ;  and,  throwing  herself 
on  a  sofa,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  wept 
long  and  bitterly. 

Till'  beaiilit'id  flays  of  suminer  had  come. 
It  was  now  the  last  of  June,  and  they  had 
been  married  nearly  three  months.  How 
like  a  dream  of  ha[)piness  the  days  had 
passed  to  Jane  I  Not  that  shi;  had  been 
entirely  free  from  fears  and  anxieties ;  not 
that  she  was  entirely  confident  in  her 
future  ;  but  because  she  had  been  always 
with  Allen,  and  ho  had  been  kind  to  her, 
she  had  been  more  than  contented.  He 
had  not  grown  cold,  nor  had  ho  been  less 
devoted  ;  but  perhaps  his  love  was  a  little 
spasmodic,  a  little  like  one  who,  suddenly 
remembering  that  he  has  a  part  to  act,  in 
his  haste  rather  overdoes  it.  He  was  less 
inclined  to  be  frank  and  confidential,  nnrc 
inclined  to  reserve  and  thoughtfulness. 
"  He  is  married  now,"  said  Jane  excus- 
ingly,  "  and  married  to  an  old  wife ;  so  he 
must  be  more  dignified,  more  serious." 
Still,  sometimes    she    sighed,  though   she 


woidd  not  acknowledgp  It  to  lientelf,  for 
a  little  of  the  liovish  eageriii'ss  and 
demonstratlvi'uess  that  had  been  so  win- 
ning in  the  lirsf  davs  alter  bis  return. 
Nor  had  she  ipiite  as  much  of  liis  siniety 
as  tiirmei-ly  ;  but  perhaps  a  woman  mIiouIiI 
not  exjiect  a  husband  to  !»•  conslantly  at 

'her  side.  It  was  not  reasiitiable,  and  she 
had  determined  to  lie  riMisonabht  from  tho 
first.     A  few  days  at\er  her  marriage  she 

I  had  said  to  Allen,  "  Now,  dear,  we  will 
begin    with   every  thing  fair   and  sipiare, 

I  Vol!  are  my  Inisband,  and  I  have  bound- 
los  conlidence  in  you.     I'm  at   best    but  a 

[  poor  liu-iiiess  woman,  and  lliere  are  many 

tliini's  that  II 1  looking  into:  so  I  want  to 

I    .  .        . 

give  every  thing   into  your    hands.     Now 

that  I  am  your  wile,  all    1  have  is  yours; 
'  though,  for  that  matter,  I've  always  eonsiil- 
]  ered    that  half  belonged    to  you.     Father 
I  never  would  have  cut  you  oil',  if  he   liadn't 
I  been  iniliienced  "  —  she  had  scarce  said  the 
words  when  she  was   angry  with  herself 
!  for   allowing   a   hard    thought  against  Dr. 
I  Warden,  —  "but  he  knew  he  cimld  trust  to 
me  to  make  it  all  right  liir  you ;  and,  if  I 
hadn't  married  you,  dear,  I  always  intenil- 
ed  to  give  you  your  share  just  the  same." 
"  Good  littlo  soul !  "  said  Allen,  pressing  his 
lips  to  her  faded  cheek  with  well-assumeil 
fondness.  Jane  looked  at  him  worshi|it'iilly, 
and  then  went  on  with  her  plans.     "  Now 
we  will  arrange  it  once  and  for  all,  and 
never  speak  of  it  again ;  fiir  I  hate  business, 
anil  you  must  take  all   the  eare   from  mo. 
All  is  yours,  —  houses,  lands,  bank-stock, 
railroad  bonds,  government  securities,  and 
all.     In  that  desk  are  all  father's  books  and 
papers  :  my  lawyer  made  the  transfer  be- 
fore we  were  married.     I   would  have  it 
so  :  it's  all  there  ;  and  here's  the  key." 

Allen  hesitated ;  but  she  thrust  the  kcya 
into  his  fingers,  and  patted  him,  and  kissed 
him,  and  was  tho  proudest  and  happiest 
of  women.  She  never  knew  nor  felt  that 
she  had  made  any  sacrifice.  Innocent 
and  trustinir,  she  thought  ho  loved  her, 
and  not  her  fortune.  Then,  if  she  belonged 
to  him,  was  not  all  she  had  his  ?  Perhaps 
her  confidence  might  have   been   a  little 


128 


A   DOMESTIC   TRAGEDY. 


J    i 


shaken,  if  slio  could  Imvo  known  tlio  true  1  iike  to  run  down  to  New  York  on  busi- 
fitato  of  tliiiii;s.  — of  till'  lirx'x  list  of  di'l)ts.  |  ness." 

di'lits  oflionor,  he  called  tlu'in;  of  llu'shiiino-i  "You're  very  good,  Allen  ;  T  shall  be 
fill  record  of  his  last  six  years  of  filly  and  I  '_dad  to  have  yon  •^n ;  and  I  hope  you'll  like 
reckless  dissipation.  Hut  "he.  suspected  |  Ethel,"  continued  Jane,  as  she  glauce<l 
nothin"  :  her  own  soul  was  so  white  and 


pure,  that  she  could  not  iinaj;iiie  another's 
to  l)e   so   dark  and    stained.     If  slui   had 
known   half    the    poor  infatuated    father 
knew,  she  never   would   have   desi'j;nated 
that  time  of  his  \i\c  thoughtless  and  wild, 
whicli  was   little  less   than   criminal ;  and 
the  last  six  years  liad  i)een  almost  a  rep- 
etition of  his  iiiriuer  sins.    Then,  I'ow  could 
sugh  a  man   settle  down  quietly  and  con- 
tentedly as   tlie    devoted    husband   of    a 
woman  older  and  less  attractive  tlian  him- 
self?    As  soon  as  her  fortune  was   firmly 
within  his  grasp,  he  began  to  consider  hia 
true  position  ;  his  marriage  bonds  pressed 
upon  him  like  chains;  he  constantly  wished 
lor  chau'ie,  treedom,  amusement,  any  thing 
to  break  the  monotony  of  his  too-peaceful 
life;    but  Jane,  so  happy  herself,  thought 
him     equally    so,    and     suspected     noth- 
ing. 

As  T  said  before,  the  long  days  of  sum- 
mer had  come.  Dinner  li.ad  been  over  an 
hour.  Allen  sat  on  the  balcony  smoking, 
his  handsome  head  resting  against  the  well- 
cushioned  back  of  a  lounging  chair,  and 
his  legs  extended  to  the  full  length  of 
that  comtlirtable  piece  of  furniture,  enjoy- 
ing the  cool  of  the  evening  in  indolent  ease, 
when  Jane  came  out  from  the  drawing- 
room  with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand." 
"  It's  from  Ethel,"  she  said,  "  and  she's 
coming." 

"  Ah  !  How  soon  ?  "  incjuired  Allen, 
with  mcn-e  interest  than  he  h.ad  shown  in 
any  thing  for  some  days. 

"  She  will  be  in   New  York   to-morrow. 


over  the  letter  with  a  thoughtful  air. 

.Mien  watched  her  lor  ii  (ew  i.ionn'nfs 
curiously ;  then  he  threw  away  his  ci'iar, 
and  drew  her  to  his  side.  "  Sit,  here.  .Tennic, 
a  little  while,"  he  said,  "  and  tell  me  aliout 
this  girl.  Although  you've  spoken  of  her 
so  ollen,  T  know  nothing  of  her  history." 

"  It   was   my  finishing   year   at    Maple 
Grove,   and  I    was   nearly  ei;;hteen.  when 
she   was    brought    there,     i    1-vc',..    little 
thing  of  four  years,  in  deep  mourning  for 
the  mother   she  had  just   lost.     She    was 
from  New   Orleans,  and   spoke  French  as 
well    as    English.      From    the  first    she 
called  meher;7e/(7e  mamnn,  and  I  loved  her 
dearly.     She   slept   with   me;   I    dressed, 
and  combed,  and  bathed    her:   in   fact,  I 
took  nearly   iill  the  care   of  her ;    for  she 
was   so  sweet  and  gentle,  and  seemed  to 
cling  to  me  as  though  I  were   indeed  her 
mother.      Before  she  had   been  there   six 
months,  the   dreadful  news  came  that  her 
father,  in  a  fit  of  despair  at  the  suihlen  loss 
of  his   fortune,  had  taken   his    own    life. 
No  one  came  forward  to  provide   for  the 
child  :  she  seemed  to  be  left  .alone  in  the 
world,  friendless  and  destitute ;  and  I  <!0uld 
not  desert  her,  she  loved  me  an<l  clung  to 
me  so.     I  wrote  to   papa,  telling  him  the 
pitiful  story,  and  asking  him  to   allow  me 
to  do  something  for  the   dear  little  thing 
out  of  my  own  small   income  left  me  by 
mamma.     He  at  once  consented  ;   and  the 
principal  of  the  school,  who  was  very  fond 
of  her,  agreed  to  keep  her  until  she  was 
sixteen,   if    I   would   defray  h.alf  the  ex- 
penses of  her  tuition,  iind  provide  her  with 


You  must  go  down  in  the  morning  train,  .  clothes.     This   papa    allowed    nie   to    do. 

She  finished  her  education,  and  came  to 
me  about  a  year  after  you  went  away. 
We  were  all  so  fond  of  her,  papa  loved  her 
dearly,  and  Dr.  Warden  petted  her  like  a 
child.  She  was  a  great  comfort  to  us,  and 
we  really  needed  her  ;  when  most  unexpect- 
cdlv  a  letter  came  from  an  aunt  in  New 


and  bring  her  uj).  She  conies  as  far  as 
there  with  friends,  and  expects  some  of  us 
to  meet  her;  but  if  30U  don't  care  to  go, 
Allen,  I  will  send  Tlumias  for  her." 

"  You  needn't  send  a  servant,  Jane,  when 
you've  a  husband  ready  to  wait  upon  you 
and  your  Mr  prolt'gte  ;  and,  besides,  I  should 


!» 


n 


)Jt'W  York  on  busi- 

,  Allen ;  T  sliiill  be 
lid  I  hopu  you'll  like 
lie.  as  she  glanced 
lu)n,j:litt'iil  air. 
for  a  (ew  i.ionn'iifs 
row  away  his  ci'iar, 
e.  "  Sii,  hero.  Jonnic, 
"  and  tell  me  ahoiit 
)u've  spoken  of  her 
ig  of  her  history." 
ing  year  at  Maple 
3.arly  ei ;;liteen.  when 


3re, 


I,..,-, 


ittle 


I  deep  mourning  for 

just  lost.     She   was 
id  spoke  French  as 
from    the  first    she 
man,  and  I  loved  her 
nih   me ;   I    dressed, 
;hed    her:   in   fact,  I 
lare   of  her  ;    for  she 
ntle,  and  seemed  to 
1  I  were   indeed  her 
had   been  there   six 
news  came  that  her 
Liir  at  the  sudden  loss 
aken   his    own    life, 
d  to  provide   for  the 
be  left  .alone  in  the 
lestitute ;  and  I  could 
ved  me  and  clung  to 
papa,  telling  him  the 
ing  him  to   allow  mo 
the   dear  little  thing 
,11   income  left;  me  by 
e  consented  ;   and  the 
3l,  who  was  very  fond 
3ep  her  until  she  was 

defray  half  the  ex- 
and  provide  her  with 

allowed  nie  to  do. 
kication,  and  came  to 
ifter  you  went  aw.ay. 
of  her,  papa  loved  her 
•den  petted  her  like  a 
reat  comfort  to  us,  and 
;  when  most  unexpect- 
frora  an  aunt  in  New 


A  DOMESTIC  TRAGEDY. 


129 


Orleans,  who  had  not  made  herself  known 
when  Kthel  was  a  heljjlesa  child,  a.-^kiiij; 
her  to  come  and  live  with  her.  Dearly  as 
we  loved  her,  we  could  not  keep  her  from 
a  relative;  so  she  went,  unwillingly  at  first, 
thou.;lj  now  she  is  quite  contented  with 
her  lilb  there.  Ilcr  aunt  is  very  gay,  and 
she  meets  more  society  than  she  could  in 
oiu- (piiet  home.  Every  sununcr  she  sjiends 
three  months  with  me  ;  with  that  exception, 
I  have  lost  her  altogether." 

"  Uather  selfish  of  her  to  go  off  just  as 
soon  as  she  was  old  enough  to  be  a  com- 
paniou  for  you,"  yawned  Allen. 

"  I  have  thought  so  myself  soractiraes," 
returned  Jane  sadly.  "  I  made  a  great  many 
sacrifices  for  her ;  and  I  loved  her  so  dearly 
that  I  hoped  she  would  never  leave  rae. 
Still,  I  must  not  blame  the  dear  girl  :  I  am 
sure  she  loves  me  as  well  as  ever ;  and,  of 
course,  her  relatives  had  the  first  claim  upon 
her." 

Allen  remained  silent;  and  Jane 
leaned  her  head  against  his  shoulder  and 
looked  into  his  face  with  tender,  tearful  eyes. 
"  "What  are  you  thinking  of,  little  woman  ?  " 
he  said  at  last. 

"  O  Allen !  I  am  ashamed  to  tell  you, 
my  happiness  has  made  me  so  selfish ! 
I  don't  like  to  feel  so ;  but  I  can't  bear  that 
there  should  be  any  change,  any  break,  in 
our  life.  I  am  so  contented,  so  pe-fectly  con- 
tented, with  you,  that  I  don't  want  a  third 
person  to  disturb  our  peace." 

"  Then,  you  don't  want  her  to  come  ?  " 
asked  Allen  bluntly. 

"  Yes :  oh,  yes,  I  do  I  It's  not  that.  You 
don't  understand  me,  dear;  and  I'm  very 
foolish." 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  are  a  trifle,  Jane. 
I  think  it'll  be  very  pleasant  to  have  a 
bright,  cheerful  girl  in  the  house." 

"  Why,  Allen  I  you're  not  dull,  you're 
not  discontented,  are  you  ?  "  cried  Jane 
wiih  a  sharp  ring  of '  trouble  in  her  voice. 
'  I  hope  you're  not  tired  of  your  quiet  life 
already.  I  hope  you're  not  tired  of  me." 
Then,  overcome  by  a  terrible  thought,  she 
covered  her  face,  and  hurst  into  tears. 

Alien  looked  at  her  almost  angrily :  then 


he  said  fretfully.  "This  is  too  much,  Jane! 
I  thought  you  were  a  woman  of  sense. 
Tired  of  you  V  how  absurd!  If  I  were  tired 
of  you,  I  needn't  stay  here  at  your  elbow 
all  the  time,  need  IV  How  unjust  and 
childish  .o  speak  so  !  " 

"I  know  it,  dearest;  pray  forgive  me! 
I  am  very  nervous  and  tbolish  to-night  :  a 
Ibreboding  of  trouble  haunts  me  ;  but  don't 
scold  me,  Allen,"  cried  Jane  in  a  pitil'ully 
imploring  voice. 

"  I  don't  scold  you ;  I  won't  scold  you ;  only 
be  reasonable,"  returned  Allen,  as  he  arose 
had  paced  the  balcony.  lie  diil  not  caress 
her :  th«re  was  no  tenderness  in  his  voice. 
Jane  was  woimded  and  disa]t|)ointed  :  her 
heart  ached  ;  but  she  was  silent,  and  Ibrced 
back  her  tears  resolutely. 

"  He  shall  not  see  rae  cry,"  she  said.  "  I  f 
I  am  unhappy,  he  must  not  know  it." 

The  next  day  she  dressed  herself  with 
imusual  care,  struggled  out  of  the  sadness 
that  still  hung  over  her,  crushed  every  re- 
gret and  disappointment ;  and,  thinking  only 
of  her  husband  and  her  joy  at  seeing  him, 
even  after  so  short  a  parting,  she  went  to 
the  station  to  meet  him  with  an  expres.sion 
of  contentment  on  her  placid  face.  The 
train  arrived  a  few  moments  after  she 
reached  the  platform.  She  ran  to  her  hus- 
band, kissed  him  fondly,  and  clasped  Ethel 
in  her  arms,  almost  weeping  with  joy. 
"  How  well  you're  looking !  how  tall  you've 
grown  !  how  pretty  you  are  !  O  Allen  !  isn't 
she  a  darling  ?  "  she  cried,  hurrying  them 
to  the  carriage.  During  the  drive  home, 
she  held  a  hand  of  each.  Allen  was  in 
excellent  spirits.  Jane  looked  at  him 
proudly.  Was  there  ever  another  such  a 
noble,  handsome  man  as  her  husband  ?  and 
Ethel,  she  was  very  lovely,  a  dark,  queenly 
girl,  with  lustrous  eyes,  and  full,  rosy  lips. 
What  a  contrast  to  her !  For  a  moment  a 
pain  pierced  her  heart :  she  seemed  so  old, 
so  faded,  so  plain,  beside  this  glorious 
creature  1  but  she  would  not  allow  a  shadow 
to  cloud  this  evening.  No  :  her  two  dear 
ones  should  be  happy,  very  happy.  It  did 
not  matter  whether  she  were  young  and 
pretty :  they  loved  her,  and  that  was  enough. 


A  DOMESTIC  TRAGEDY. 


130 

The  dinner  passed  off  in  almost  childish 
merriment.  Dr.  Warden  w«stl.ere.  I.  only 

ean.e  occ.ionally,  and  Ethel  was  the  x- 
cusc  for  his  presence  this  even.n;r.  In  the 
twilight,  they  pac.l  up  and  down  the  jr- 


window,  watehlnK  the  rising  moon,  as  pale 
and.puetasaspirit;andthron,l.herbva.n 

and  thro«.4h  her  heart,  minified  with  Al  e  s 
voice  and  the  sonj;  of  Ethel,  soun.ledtlio 
prophetic  words  of  the  doctor,  "  But  the  end 


den  walks.    Ethel,  leanin,  on  the  arm  ol    .  -  J^^ ;         ,^^„^,^  ,  ,,,ay  slowly 

Allen,  talked  and  la„,hed  with  g.rl.sl.c^^  Jane,  swiftly  and  joyously 

dom  ;  and  Jane,  happy  but  qu.et,  l.=t   u.d    .„c^wea    >  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^  ^^^^^^^^.^  ,^ 

toDr.Warden-smoreseriousc<M.v.rsaU  ..    to  ^^^^   ^^^^^  , 

Ever  sinee  her  n.ama.^e,  Allen  had  l^^?"  M  j;  ^^  ^hc   first  they  had  made  a 

prohibited  ,uestion  between  the.r.  ^M;^:l,,  of  sharin,  their  time  with  her;  but 
doctor  never  spoke  ot  lum    but  «^^  ^'^J  ,„„„  ,,,v  that  she  was  ra  her  a 

he  dislike<l  him  none  the  less,  ^l^'""'^'  ^"^^1,4  ,i,,„  otherwise  to  their  happi- 
hc  treated  him  with  the  utn^st  pohtene  s,  '  -;^-\^^„^^,„,„,,  ja„e  did  not  ride 
he  was  always  formal  and  cold  towanllnn-«a^^^^  l^orsewoman,  and 

At  first  Jane  had  used  all  her  em.n.ne  tact    Lthe    wa  p  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^  .  ^^ 

to  brin,  about  a  better  ieehng   ^^  ^^  I  t^;;,",    d  alf  their  mornings  in  the  sad- 
them;  but   she  had  faded,  and   she  now       ey  p  ^^^  delicate,  and 

allowed  nuuters  to  take  their  own  course    dl  •    Jane  ^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^^^^  ^^^^ 

without  interference.     Several   tune     «^     ^^  Z^,'!^^  ,,  ^..^  the  country,  so  she  was 
hadbeenontheln-inkoftelm,the  doc^      o  .^^^^^^^  ^^^^  ^„,.,_  „,  to  wander 

how  mistaken  he  had  been  m  regard       her    left  a  o  ^^^^^^  ^_^^^  ^.^^ ^^^ 

position  as  Allen's  wife;  ^^^  V"'' ^""''^  '^"  P^^  ,ome  distraction  for  her  unqmet 
son,  she  had  never  found  the  ^^''f  .H  ^^^^  There  were  picnics  ami  croquet- 
approach  the  interdicted  subject :  but  his  Uf  ■  „^.  i^^,,.i,oo,l.  Sl.e  had  never 
ellnin,,  emboldened  by  the  hour,  the  doc-  P^^^;  '\j^^,,  ;„,  ,,,did  not  care  to  now ; 
tor's  ,entle  mood,  and  her  own  con  dence    attended  ^^^^^^^  ^^^_^  ^^^^^  ^^^^^ 

i,.  her  happiness,  she  said  -f- >f  ryol^Jd  to,  accompanied  by  Allen      Some- 
lusion,  alter  a  few  moments  of  sdence.    You     hou  ,  ^^^^  ^  j.^^j^  ^^j^^^j^ 

see,  doctor,  your  fears  were  groundless,  or    t.m^^^^^^^^^  .^^^  J^^^,^^  ^,^.„  ,^  ,, 

I  am  perfectly  contented.     Allen  ^s  so  go  d     to Je  v  ^^^  ^^^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^ 

so  very  good,  that  I  have  never  regretted    f^^^^^^^^i,,,  confidence,  she  made  excuses 


for  a  moment."  „ 

The  doctor  did  not  reply  at  once,     lie 
turned  his  head  away,  and  looked  resolutely 


her  boundless  confidence,  she  made  excuses 
for  them.  They  were  young  and  lull  ot 
Ufo,  they  were  congenial  to   each  o^e. 


av,  and  looked  resolutely    me,  mey  «.-  ^"  =  ^j^^^^j^ 

into  the  distance,    i- waited  a^^  U-eha^-^|he.^ 
Was  he  convinced,  or  was  he  evading   an    ^«.  dcs     y  \    ^^^^^jj.  i,,,  .instant 

answer?     At  last  he  cleared  his  throat,  and      gam  «hc  rep  ^^^  ^^    ^^^^^^^^  ^  ^^^^ 
gasped  out,  like  one  choking  down  a  «ob,    Ic^so",  ^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^^   ^,^ 

fyls:  you're  happy  enough  now  ;  "1^^^  Ln  -uld  follow  the  prophetic 
end  is  not  yet.     However,  don't   speak  of   l^e  a  ^^  ^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^ 

that    You  know  my  opinion.     ^^^'^^  f  ,,     Sometimes   she  would  be  restless, 

in:it'sgettingtoodamptoryouhere.    Ihe      e  j        ,i,„t,  and  inclined  to  lee 

laughter  of  Ethel  and  Allen  jarred  upon  us    nuserab    ,       P^  ^^^  ^^^^  .  ^„, 

nei'ves,  and  worried  him  :  he  could  not  h.ten     uro^  Al  ^^^  ^^  ^.^^^^_  ^^,^  ,,  , 

to  it  any  longer;  so,  saying  he  had  a  pau^nt    hew  .^^^^^  ^^^,j  good-natured, 

to  visit,  he  wishe.1  them  a  turned  '  good-    ahva)  9  ^^^  ^^^^jj^,  ^^^j^^^g 

nigh  ,"  and  went  away.  Ethel  seated  herself     ha^on^  ^^  j^^^,  j^^,^  ,,,  „,ver 

atWpiano,andsanginaclea.,sw^tvo..jto^^^^^^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^  ^,^^,  ,,,  ^,t 

Allen  turned  the  music:  Jane  sat  bytaei 


■ 


A  DOMESTIC  TRAGEDY. 


131 


r  moon,  as  pale 
roui^li  lirr  brain, 
;le(l  with  Allen's 
lel,  sounded  t\iO 
>r,  "  But  the  end 

ged  away  slowly 
ly  and  joyously 
were  always  to- 
ren  tliuni  entire 
icy  had  made  a 
mi)  with  her;  but 
ihc  was  rather  a 

to    their  happi- 
ane  did  not  ride, 
lorscwonian,   and 
that  exercise;  so 
rnings  in  the  sad- 
jeen  delicate,  and 
cl  and  Allen  liked 
untry ;  so  she  was 
sofa,  or  to  wander 

and  silent  garden, 
II  for  her  unquiet 
nics  and  croquet- 
od.  Slie  had  never 
.id  not  care  to  now ; 
ral  than  that  Ethel 

by  Allen.  Some- 
were  a  little  selfish 
much ;  then  in  the 
lad  the  stren-th  of 
c,  she  made  excuses 

young  and  full  of 
tiial  to  each  other, 
er;  then,  why  should 
asure?     Again   and 
herself  her  constant 
reasonable  :   I   must 
And  close  upon   it, 
follow  the  prophetic 
"  But  the  end  is  not 
e   would   be  restless, 
,  and  inclined  to  lec- 
only  the  chance  ;  but 
Lttle,  and  then  ho  was 
te  and  good-natured, 
he  had  really  nothing 
J  loved  her,  she  never 
why  should  she  fret 


■ 


because,  he  did  not  show  it  in  the  way  she 
preOrn-d.     And   Ethel   was  so   sweet,    so 
carc?sing,  so  loving,  that  she  could  find  no 
fault  with  her.     Still,  she  was  not  satisfied  ; 
"she  was  iinluippy,  and  she   could  not  tell 
why.     "  Patience,  patience,"  she  would  say 
to  soothe  herself.    "  I  am  wicked  and  scKish. 
In  a  few  weeks  Ethel  will  be  gone,  llie  fine 
weather  will  ho   over,  and    Allen  will  be 
with  me  always;  then  wc  shall  return  to 
our  old,  intimate  Wfe,  and  all  will  be  as  it 
was   before."    Inasmuch  as    she  was    sad 
and  depressed  when  alone,  she  tried  to  be 
cheerful  and   happy   when   she   was  with 
tlieiii ;  and  they,  too  much  absorbed  in  their 
own   pleasure,  did   not  notice  how   forced 
and    unnatural  it   was.     In  the  beginning 
of  September  she  grew  languid  and  weak, 
remaining   in  her   room   for  entire  days. 
Then   Alien  had,  sp.asuiodic  fits  of  tender- 
ness that  almost  re-assured  her,  and  drove 
away  hi'r  gloomy  forebodings.     Dr.  War- 
den came  occasionally,  looked  at  her  piti- 
fully, held  her  thin  wrist  between  his  fin- 
gers, and  counted  her  languid   pulse  with 
most  ilepressing  gravity.     Tlien  he  would 
prescribe  a  tonic,  and  go  away,  without  her 
reailiiig   any  thing   in  his   impassive  face. 
One  (l:iy  she  felt  very  poorly,  and  Allen 
and  Ethel  reuiained  with  her  all  the  morn- 
ing.    She  slept  during  the  afternoon  while 
they  rode,  and  when  dinner  was  over  both 
ha<l  come  into  her  room  and  talked  a  half- 
hour    affectionately   and   cheerfully;  then 
Allen  proposed  a  walk  to  Ethel. 

'•  Lie  still  and  try  to  sleep  until  we 
return,"  said  he  to  Jane,  as  he  leaned  over 
her,  and  touched  his  lips  lightly  to  her 
foreheail. 

Ethel  had  left  the  room :  some  sudden 
emotion  stirred  Jane's  poor  heart  to  its 
very  depths ;  and,  throwing  her  arms  around 
her  husband's  neck,  she  drew  his  face  close 
to  hers,  and  sobbed,  "  I  love  you,  dear  :  I 
love  you  so  much ;  and  I  am  so  unhappy." 
Allen  turned  dreadfully  pale  :  something 
ia  her  voice  struck  his  heart  like  a  blow ; 
but  he  drew  away  from  her  clinging  arms, 
and  said  sternly,  -'What  childishness,  Jane  ! 


this  way."     Then,  kissing  her  again  m  ire 
coldly  than  before,  he  went  out  and  left  her 
alone.     Her  hands  fell  helplessly ;  and  she 
turned    her   face    to  the    pillow,    sighing 
heavily,  "  It's  no  use  :  I  will  be  reasonable. 
I  will   not  make  him    unhappy."     Then 
came  the  refrain,  "  The  end  is  not  yet,  the 
end  is  not  yet."     She   tried  resolutely  to 
compose  herself  to  sleep,  but  she  could  not ; 
then  she  arose  and  looked  from  the  win- 
dow.    The  sun  was  setting  :  she  watihcd 
it  with  slow,  intense   gaze.     "  Would  she 
see  it  set  iigain  ?     To-morrow  would  she  be 
living  and  suffering  ?  or  would  she  be  lying 
cold   and   dead?     There   was  mignoni^tte 
on    the   table.     Allen   was   so  fond  of  it. 
"  When  she  was  dead,  would  he  stoop  over 
her  coffin,  and  lay  it  upon  her  bre.ast,  and 
drop  a  tear  upon  her  fiice  ?  "     She  leaned 
forward,   and   looked  down     the   avenue. 
Allen  and  Ethel  were  returning  from  their 
walk.     They   were  talking  earnestly,  and 
never  raised  their  eyes  to  the  pale  face  at 
the  window.     Smiling  and  happy,  full  of 
life  and  joy,  they   passed  out  of  si.;ht  and 
entered  the  house.    "  Will  they  come  ii|)  'I  " 
she  wondered.     She  waited  a  long   time, 
and  they  did  not  come  ;  so  she  resolved  to 
iro  down.     "  Yes,"  she  thought :     "  I   will 
make  the  effort.     I  will  dress  myself  and 
iro   down.     I    will   spend    another   hajipy 
evening   with  them.     I  am  dreadfully  ner- 
vous :  all  these  morbid  feelings  are  a  part 
of  my  disease ;  and  I  cannot  ih-ive  them 
away."     She  arranged  her  hair  with  trem- 
bling hands,   and   put   on  a  white   dress. 
Allen    liked   her  best   in  white,   but  how 
•diastly  pale  she  was  I    "  Would  she  look  so 
when  she  was  dead  ?  "  she  ftjund  herself 
thinking  again.     "  Would  they  dress  her 
in  white,  and  put  myrtle  and    pansies  on 
her  breast?     What  folly  1  was  she  going 
mad  ?     She  must  go  down  to  save  herself 
from  such  dreadful  thoughts.     The  doctor 
had  told  her  not  to  leave  her  room  :  Allen 
had  told  her  the  same ;  yet  she  must  go, 
and    she  would   go.     The    drawing-room 
was  silent  and  dark.     "  They  are  on  the 
balcony,"   she   said,   and   walked   straight 


you'll  make  yourself  worse  if  you  fret  in  I  toward  her  sad  destiny.     Her  own  name 


r 


A  DOMESTIC  TRAGEDY. 


fs 


132 

fell  dear  and  sharp  upon  her  car.  It  was 
Ethel  ^vho  .poke  ;  and  she  said, "  But  Jnno, 
po.,r  Jane  1  when  she  Las  been  so  good  to 
!ne,what  a  return  to  rob  her  of  her  hus- 
ban.l's  love."  Then  Allen  replied  distinct- 
ly and  passionately,  "  For  God's  sake! 
Ethel,  don't  say  you've  robbd  her  of  my  j 
love.      It  never  was  hers.     I   hcver  loved 

her,  never  1 "  ,       ,     ,    . 

Jane  thought  she  cried  out  sharply,  but 
she  was  n.istaken  ;  for  her  white  lips  made 
no  sound  :  neither  could  she  hear;  a  ieariul 
rin.^ins  in  her  ears  drowned  their  voices, 
and  black  darkness  settled  upon  her.     blie 
reached  out  her  arms  for  some  support,  but 
there  was  nothing  to  lean  upon.     "I  must 
«ot  fall  l.ere,"  she  thought;  and,  struggling 
to    overcome    her    mortal    weakness,  she 
reached  the  door,  and  groped  blindly  back 
to  her  room.     There  she  was  safe  from  in- 
trusion ;  there  she  could  look  her  nun  in 
the  face  undisturbed.      She  clasped  both 
han.ls  over  her  heart,  to  still  its  heavy 
beatin-r.     Above   all   she   must  be    calm. 
No  one   must  know  what  had  happened, 
not  even  they  :  they  must  never  know  that 
Bhe  ha.l  overheard  them  ;  there  was  some- 


thin-  humiliating  in  the  very  thought, 
eeemed  to  her  that  she  stood  for  hours  in  the 
middle  of  her  room,  outwardly  (luiet  as  a 
statue,  doing  battle  with  an  army  of  interior 
emotions.     "  First  of  all,"  she  said, '« I  must 
calm  myself  before  I  can  see  clearly  into 
my  own  heart,  before   I  can   be    just   to 
them."    At  last  some  one  knocked  gently. 
It  was  her  maid,  who  asked  if  she  nee.led 
any  thing.    Jane  opened  the  door,  and  said 
softly,  "Nothing:  don't  disturb  me   again 
to-night.     I  think  I  shall  sleep,  for  I  am 
very  dred."  Afterward  the  woman  remem- 
bered how  strangely  her  mistress's  voice 
had   sounded.      She    lit    her    night-lamp, 
pliced  it  near  her  bed,  and  shaded  it  so 
that  the  room  was  nearly  dark.     Then  she 
sat  down  by  a  table,  and  took  her  Bible : 
she  had  used  it  from  childhood,  and  had 
always  fbuiid  comfort  in  its  blessed  pages; 
now  slie  held  it  in  her  fingers  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  laid  it  down,   seeing 
noihiag  to  console  her.    She  was   ship- 


wrecked, with  not  even  a  plank  to  clini  to ; 
an<l  the  one  thing  only  tbat  she  understood 
elearly  was  her  utter  desolation.     She  was 
alone  in  the  world,  utterly  alone.      Allen 
did   not  love   ln'.r,  ha.l   never   loved   her; 
neither  had  Ethel;   and  she  had  .lone  so 
1  muc.h  for  both  1     "  Why  have  they  .le.eivcd 
me  ?  why  have  they  deceived  me  i" "    she 
I  repeated  over  an<l  over.     "  How  could  they 
have  the  heart  to  deceive   me?     Have   I 
not   loved   them   both,  as  a  mother   loves 
her    children?      Why,   then,   have    they 
deceived  me  so  cruelly?     Why  did  Allen 
profess  to  love  me?    Why  .lid  he  wish  to 
marry  me  ?     And  why  has  Ethel  loaded  me 
with  affection  and  caresses?"     In  her  in- 
finite h.ve,  in  the  generosity  of  her  noble 
heart,  she  even  tried   to  find  excuses  for 
both.  '•  Poor  Allen  1  "  she  thought :  '•  he  must 
have  suffercl  so  much,  and  he  will  sutler 
so,  to  be  boun.l  to  a  woman  he  .Iocs   not 
love  !     And  Ethel,  what  a  fate  for  her  to  be 
separated  from   him   by  such  a  barrier! 
The.  she  began  to  blame  herself  lor  allow- 
in-  him  to  make  8u<;h  a  sacrifice.     '•  I  might 
ha've  known  that  he  was  mistaken  when  he 
thought  he  loved  me.     Poor  boy!  he  im- 
agined it;  and  now, in  the  constant  society 
of  a  young  and  lovely  woman,  he  has  dis- 
1  eovered  his  delusion.     What  am  I  to  do  I 
I  lomred  to  make  them  both  happy;  and  1 
havclnade  them  miserable.    I  am  an  obsta- 
cle ;  and  how  shall  I  remove  myself  from 
their  path?"      She  imagined  a  hundred 
impossible  projects,  that  afforde.l  her  no 
comfort;  for,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  always 
returned  to  the  old  thought,  of  her  utter 
desolation.     She  had  no  husband,  no  love, 
nothin-.     She  had  stripped  herself  of  every 
thin-,  to  give  all  to  Allen  ;  and  now  she  lay 
crushed  and  broken,  like  a  poor  weed,  torn 
up  by  the  roots,  and  lcf\  to  die.     Hasty 
steps  approached  her  door :  she  knew  it  was 
her  husband.    It  was  late,  and  he  was  corn- 
in-  to  his  bed.     How  could  she  meet  him  i 
Her  heart  stood  still,  and  the  cold  sweat 
lav  in  drops  on  her  ilice.     She  was  thank- 
fu"l  for  the  friendly  shade  of  the  room,  that 
hi.1  her  b^rrible  pallor.    There  was  an  ex- 
pression of  triumph  on  Allen's  face,  and  a 


^ 


A  DOMESTIC  TBAQEDY. 


1S8 


plank  toclini  to; 
liat  sliu  unilor?lo()tl 
solation.  Slic  was 
>rly  alone.  Allen 
never  loved  her; 
1  tihe  had  done  so 
have  they  dei^eivcd 
;ceived  mc  ?  "    she 

"  How  could  they 
ive   nie?     Have   I 
as  a  mother   loves 
,   then,   have    they 
■  ?    Why  did  Allen 
,Vhy  did  he  wish  to 
lias  Ethel  loaded  me 
■?ses  ?  "     In  her  in- 
3rosity  of  her  noble 
to  find   excnses  for 
lu  tho>i'i;ht :  "  he  must 
1,  and  he  will  suA'*?'" 
woman  he  does    not 
it  a  fate  for  her  to  be 
by  such  a  barrier !  '* 
mo  herself  for  allow- 
i  saerifiee.     "  I  nii;.'ht 
-as  mistaken  when  he 
,     Poor  boyl  he  im- 
1  the  constant  society 
y  woman,  he  has  dis- 

What  am  I  to  do? 
m  both  hai>py ;  and  I 
rable.    I  am  an  obsta- 
I  remove  myself  from 
imagined  a  hundred 
that  afforded  her  no 
of  hers'-<lf,  she  always 
thoui^ht,  of  her  utter 
1  no  husband,  no  love, 
ripped  herself  of  every 
lUen  ;  and  now  she  lay 
like  a  poor  weed,  torn 
,d  left  to  die.    Hasty 
r  door :  she  knew  it  was 
is  late,  and  he  was  com- 
w  could  she  meet  him  ? 
ill,  and  the  cold  sweat 
face.     She  was  thank- 
shade  of  the  room,  that 
lor.    There  was  an  ex- 
1  on  Allen's  face,  and  a 


V       I        ' 


. 


certain  excitement  in  his  voice,  as  he  said, 
"What,  Jane  1  not  in  bed  yet;"  then  he 
cried  in  a  ditfcrent  tone,  for  her  strant,'C 
manner  startled  him,  "  Are  you  worse  ?  In 
Heaven's  name  1  what  is  the  matter  with 

you  .■*  „ 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter  :  I'm  no  worse, 
replied  Jane  calmly,  turnin-;  away  her  head 
as  she  spoke,  "but  I  should  like  to  bo  alone 
to-ni._d.t.     Will  you  sleep  in  the  m-xt  cham- 
ber?" 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it.  Can  I  do 
any  thin;j;for  you?" 

" Nothing',  thank  you;"  and  with  these 
indiiferent  words,  they  parted  forever  on 
earih,  without  either  having  the  slightest 
premonition  of  it. 

Jane's  eyes  followed  him  as  he  walked 
coldly  li-om  the  room  :  a  wild  light  spark- 
led  in   them,  — a   flame   of  longing   love, 
that  flickered  a  moment,  an<l  went  out,  leav- 
ing bcr  lace  as  pale  and  fixed  as  a  corpse. 
"  fr  he  had  but  kissed  inc.     If  he  had  but 
spoken  kindly  to  me,"  she  said  with  a  dry 
sob.     "  O  Allen,  Allen !  you  will  live  to  re- 
gret it."     Then  a  convulsion  of  grief  shook 
her  frail  form,  and  she  wrung  her  hands 
wildly,  and  looked  around,  as  though  she 
would  fly  somewhere  for  shelter.    "  If  Dr. 
Wiirdeu  were  here,"  she  cried,  "  he  would 
savemc.    Where  shall  I  go?     What  shall 
I  do?     I  am  alone,  with  nothing  in  earth 
or  heaven  to  lean  upon.    I  cannot  live  :  uiy 
heart  is  breaking,  my  biain  is  on  fire.     If 

■  I  could  but  sleep,  and  sleep  forever."    A 
bottle  on  the  table  near  her  bed  caught  her 

■  half-frenzied    glance.     It  was  an  opiate, 
that  Dr.  Warden  had  given  her  that  morn- 
ing,  when   she  complained    of   insomnia. 
"  Take  ten  drops,"  he  had  said,  "  and  no 
more."    Now  she  forgot  his  directions,  she 
forgot   every  thing;   and,  scarce  knowing 
whit  she  did,  she  put  the  bottle  to  her  lips, 
and  drank  the  contents  eagerly  ;  then  she 
fell  on  her  knees  before  her  bed,  and  tried 
to  pray.    Perhaps  it  was  from  habit,  \)<ir- 
haps  it  was  her  great  need  of  help,  that  led 
her  to  God  in  that  last  moment.     Still  it 
was  Allen  that  was  first  in  her  thoughts. 
"  Forgive  him,  and  make  him  happy,"  she 


repeated  over  and  over,  until  her  voice 
.lied  away  in  a  confused  mm-rnur.  A 
strange  drowsiness  and  nundmess  crept 
over  her :  she  reached  out  her  arms,  and 
tried  to  raise  them  upward ;  but  tlity  tell 
heavily  on  the  bed,  lier  head  drooped,  her 
eyes  (closed,  a  smile  of  ciiildish  sweetness 
settled  around  her  lips,  and  she  slept  peace- 
fully. 

That  night  Dr.  Warden  dreamed  that 
Jane  called  him.  He  awoko  cold  and 
trembling,  while  a  voice  seemed  to  say 
close  to  his  ear,  "  The  end  has  come."  Af- 
ter that  he  could  not  sleep,  but  tossed 
restlessly  on  his  bed  until  daylight.  Then 
he  rose,  dressed  himsfilf,  and  waited  pa- 
tiently for  the  proper  hour  to  visit  Jane. 
When  he  reached  the  house,  Mary  was 
dusting  the  hall ;  and  she  opened  the  door 
lor  him.  "  How  is  your  mistress  ? "  he 
said  anxiously. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir  :  I've  not  been  to  her 
yet  this  morning." 

"Is  Mr.  Alien  down?" 

"  Yes,  sir :  he's  in  the  garden  with  Miss 

Ethel." 

"  Go  up  to  y"ur  mistress,  and  say  I  am 
waiting  to  see  her,  when  she  is  ready  to 
receive  me." 

A    moment   after   a  loud  scream  from 
Mary  rang  through  the  house.     It  was  an 
ominous  summons  that  lell  no  time  lor  delay. 
When   he  entered   the  room,  the   shaded 
night-lamp    still   burned  upon   the   table. 
Slanting  rays  of  sunshine  struggled  throu-h 
the  half-open  curtains,  and  rested  warm  and 
bright  on  the  floor  where  Jane  still  knc'lt  in 
the°attitude  of  prayer,  her  head  bowed  on  her 
clasped  hanils,  silent,  cold,  dead !     With  a 
cry  of  an-iuish  he  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  and 
laid  her  upon  her  bed  as  .en-lerly  as  though 
she  had  been  a  sleeping  infant.     "  Go  find 
your  master,"  he   said  to  the  half-f.antic 
maid.     She  left  the  room,  weeping  bitterly. 
Then  he  leaned  over  Jane,  and  pressed  a 
long  kiss  on  her  placid  brow.     "  You  called 
melast  night,  darling  :  you  called  me,  and  I 
did  not  come.    If  I  had  been  here,  I  might 
have  saved  you."     Looking  around,  his  eye 
fell  ui)on  the  empty  bottle ;  and  the  truth 


^•Jkit&^umz--  • 


134 


A  DOMESTIC  TUAOEDY. 


burst  upon  liiin  in  all  its  force.  "  Oli,  my 
Go.1  !  n.y  <Joil ! "  lu'  ctI'mI  :  "  it  !«  as  1 
feiirtil ;  iind  1  uiu'onsciously  furnislii'd  luT 

till-  nit-aii!'.  I'ow  •':>"''  '  I"""''  ''''^'''''■'  '"'"■ 
turod  woman  !  your  uiisi'ry  was  too  much  for 
you  ;  but,  thank  (io.l  1  yon  arc  at  rest;  and 
no  one  shall  ever  know  the  secret  of  your 
death."  A  half-honr  later  he  came  out  of 
the  room,  howe.l  and  ii-ehle  like  one  smitten 
sud.lenly  with  old  a;je.  At  the  door  he  met 
Allen,  pale  and  horror-stricken.  He  ha.l 
just  learned  of  the  dreadful  event,  and  was 
hastenin;^  wildly  to  Jane's  room. 

"  ()  doctor  1 "  ho  cried,  "  is  it  true  ?    Is 

she  dea<l  V  " 

»  Yes,"  returned  the  doctor  sternly, "  yes : 
she  is  dead  ;  and  I  thank  God  for  it." 

"What?  How?  Tell  me  the  cause  of 
her  death,"  questioned  Allen  with  trem- 
bling;, broken  voice. 

"  Ask  your  own  heart,  and  it  will  answer 
you  better  than  I  can,"  replied  the  doctor 


with  a  look  of  deep  si;:;nificance,  as  ho 
turned  away,  and  rushed  from  i  he  house 
like  one  berel't  of  reason. 

Neither  Allen  nor  Kthel  ever  kn.-w  tho 
direct  cause  of  .Jane's  sudden  death  ;  lor 
,  later  the  dm-tor  pronouueeil  it  h.'art  dis- 
!  oase,  which,  after  all,  was  not  far  from  tho 
i  truth.  Aft.-r  the  funeral,  Kihel  ret urnod  to 
'  her  aunt.  Allen  also  left  the  p'.iee  :  tho 
'  house  was  closed,  and  no  one  except  Dr. 
I  Warden  ever  knew  of  the  sad  tra-edy  that 
ended  the  life  of  Jane  Herbert. 

Before  the  violets  bloomed  the  secmd 
time  over  Jane's  -rave,  Allen  and  Kihel 
were  married ;  but  they  never  returned  to 
their  old  home.  Perhaps  they  had  a  va-ue 
fear  of  a  hauntinj;;  presence  there.  'I  he 
house  was  sold,  and  Ur.  Warden  h-^.  i.ne  its 

owner. 

Is  poor  Jane  forgotten  ?  I  think  not ;  for 
some  one  keeps  the  llowers  fresh  and  beau- 
tiful upon  her  grave. 


' 


A 


I 


nifioancp,  as   ho 
Irom  I  lii;  liou^o 

1  ever  km-w  the 
l.K'ii  (U'Mth;  for 
cil  it  hi'iirt  dis- 
not  Car  IVoni  tho 
ICihi'l  rctiifnodto 
't  tho  i>!.K'f  :  tho 

one  I'xcc'.pt   Dr. 

sad  tragedy  that 
rbert. 

iiuod  tho  socrond 
Allen  and  Kihel 
lever  retnrned  to 

tlu'y  had  a  va^ue 
.Mice  there.  The 
Vanlen  l.'Oi  imo  its 

'    I  think  not ;  for 
rs  fresh  and  beau- 


MR.    JOHN. 


I  AM  thirty  years  old,  and  a  painter : 
that  is,  a  worshipper  of  hi-h  art;  a  disciple 
of  Kaphael,  Mi.diael  An-elo,  Tintoretto, 
Leonardo,  Paul  Veronese,  and  a  host  ot 
other  Old-World  divinities.  I  read  Uuskin 
from  principle,  Eastlake  from  curiosity,  an(' 


chance  have  I  with  my  homely  New-En<;- 
lan.l  ori-inality  V  for  1  maintain  that  it  is 
„ri;,dnality,  though   not  of  tho  markolablo 

kind.  ,       , 

I  was  born  in  Boston,  —  set  that  down  in 
niv  favor;   and  my   father  was  poor,— as 

V  .  •  ..11...      t  .Mi^lr  I'k 


Vasari  from   lo^e.     1   look   upon   uit.  i  t  j       j    common  with 

masters  as  standards,  the  modern  as  teach-    ^J^/^^     i„k,  ni.ht-work,  an.l 
ers;  and  try  to  imitate  the  --»---  °' j  1^:;^^::    I",. nld    what    little    vitality 
Kaulbach,  Zainacois,  Rousseau,  and  Uau- 
bi<rny.     I  dabble  in  landscape,  still-life,  and 
ge"nre  compositions.     Sometimes  I  am  de- 
cided that  the  only  style  worth  copying  is  the 
gray  melancholy  of  Troyon  ;  ajjain  the  senti- 
mental delicacy  of  Hamon,  or   the  ex(pn- 
gite  lenderness  of  Merle.    1  have  no  settled 
school,   no   settled   method.     There   is   so 
much  good  in  every  age,  every  style,  m  fact 
almost  every  artist,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  that 
I  don't   know  just  how  to  condemn    any. 
When  I  think  I  have  decided  on  one,  before 
I  am  aware  of  it  1  am  admiring  another 
still   more.     I  am  a  shuttlecock  of  every 
form  and  color,  balancing  between  four  -^'en- 
erations  of  battlodoors.     I  often  regret  this 
indecision,  because  I  think  it  is  the  only 
thing  that  has  prevetited  mc  from  becoming 
a  great  artist.     ARer  confessing  my  weak- 
nesses, I  may  leave  the  impression  that  I  am 
not  original  in  my  subjects  :  but  that  is  not 


had     air    consumed    what    little    vitality 
there  was  in  him.     I  was  four  years  old 
when  he  died,  leaving  my  mother,  a  delicate 
woman  of  twenty-five,  with  just  nothing  but 
Miy«elf,  as  cross  and   troublesome  a  httle 
creature  as  ever  was.     I  don't  think  mother 
lasted  more  than  three  years  atler  lather. 
I  know  she  sewed,  and  sewed  ;  and  then  we 
were  both  often  hungry.     At  last  her  poor 
eyes  -ave  out, "  From  over  use,"  the  oculist 
who  "examined    them    kindly    said,    and 
char-Tcd  her  ten  dollars  for  saying  it.     Poor 
«ouir  her  last  ten  dollars  which  she  had 
.,ive.l  from  the  sale  of  lather's  watch.    1 
think  that  ten  dollars,  paid  for  fifteen  min- 
utes of  time,  and  no  good  from  it,  broke  her 
heart ;  ibr  she  talked  of  it  constantly  untd 
she  died.    Well,  he  was  a  rich  man,  and  of 
course  his  time  was  valuable  ;  but  I  laid  it 
up  a-ainst  him  in  my  childish  heart,  always 
intending  to  be  even  with  him  by  making 


the  Boston  literati,  ship-owners,  and  doc- 
tors, the  New  York  merchants  and  railroad 


spet'ulators,  will  have  the  modern  French 


and  perhaps  I  shall  some  time.    If  ever  1 
do,  every  cent  of  it  goes  into  gravestones 

speculators,  will  have  the  moaern  .renc.   f-X';;„^  J ^ d,' what  became  of  me  7 
school,  -  Bouguereau,   Meissonter,   Frere        AfU^   mother  cUc  ^  ^^  ^ 

Diaz,  and  others  equally  popular.    So  what  I  Let  me  try  to  remc       ^ 


136 


MR.  JOHN. 


newsboy,  then  an  errand-boy,  tlien  a  prin- 
ter's <lcvil  in  die  •'  lIeruia"ollii:e,  iben  aeoni- 
pos-iloron  the  "Ji)nrnal,"  wbiclioeeiipiition  I 
followed  nnlil  I  eoiniuenced  my  prolefsion. 
When  I  was  twelve  ye:ir»  old,  I  be;,'an  my 
art  stndies  nnder  the  favorable  auspices  of 
the  Lowell  Institute.  How  well  I  remember 
my  cveninjjs  in  that  low,  gassy  studio! 
The  over-heated  boys  ami  youn'„'  men,  the 
plaster  models,  the  grave,  kind  face  of  Mr. 

II ,  with  his  large  shirt  collar,  and  the 

long,  di^liuvelled  locks  of  i^ood  Mr.  C . 

They    were    fine  teachers;   and,   without 
doubt,  I  owe  all  my  anticipated  success  to 
them.     1  am  sure  it  was  thought  that  1  had 
some  talent;  ibr,  after  si.\  years  of  drilling, 
1  could  make  as  clever  an  oiV-hand  sketch 
as  any  of  the  artists  who  have  graduated  at 
that  famous  institution.     Then  I  went  into 
the  "  lile-school,"   and   struggled   through 
every  possible  position  of  the  brawny  black- 
smith who  served  as  a  model.    Ho  must  al- 
ways remeud)er  me  ;  ibr  there  was  no  other 
scholiir  as  anxious  as  I  was  that  he  should 
twist  himself  into   impossible  contortions, 
which  I  gloried  in  producing  in  the  boldest 
and  most  angular  manner. 

One  evening,  I  think  it  was  the  begin- 
ning of  my  seventh  year  there,  I  entered 
with  the  nonchalant  air  of  an  old  habitue,  to 
take  my  usual  place,  when  I  was  conironted 

bv  Mr.  II ,  who  looked   at  me   sternly, 

alid  said  very  cavalierly,  "  It  seems  to  me. 
young  man,  that  you've  been  here  long 
enough.  We  can't  teach  you  any  thing 
more :  you  must  leave  your  place  to  others 
who  haven't  had  a  chance  yet."  Then  he 
added  dryly,  "  All  you  nee<l  is  practice  to 
make  a  second  Benjamin  West."  I  went 
away  from  this  temple  of  high  art,  a  rejected 
devotee,  turned  out  because  I  could  do 
something  !  It  was  a  dreadful  blow  ;  and 
the  only  consolation  I  hatl  was,  that  they, 
the  Alpha  and  Omega  of  art,  couM  teach 
me  no  more,  and  that  in  lime  I  might  be- 
come a  second  Benjamin  West.  On  the 
strength  of  that  encouraging  prediction,  I 
took 'an  eigbt-by-ten  studio,  with  a  very 
poor  light;  and,  with  twenty-ei.iht  dolhirs 
and  twenty-nine  cents  in  my  pocket,  I  com- 


menced my  career.  It's  no  use  to  give  the 
details  of  two  years  of  misery,  during  which 
I  only  existed  by  giving  a  few  hours  now 
and  then  to  my  old  occupation,  drawing  n 
crayon  portrait  when  I  cimlil  get  a  sitter 
whi<;h  I  believe  was  two  in  as  many  years, 
or  retouching  jiictures  for  photograi)liefs. 

Was  there  ever  such  a  mistake  in  the 
choice  of  a  profession  'I  Yes  :  there  has 
been  many,  and  even  more  fatal  ones  than 
mine  ;  for  I  always  had,  and  still  have,  the 
hope  of  success  to  lead  me  on  to  victory. 
One  only  neetls  to  succeed  a  little  to  suc- 
ceed a  great  deal ;  and  now  that  Mr.  John 
has  given  mo  the  golden  key  I  shall  open 
the  door  easily. 

I  don't  know  whether  it  was  a  fiend  or 
an  angel,  in  the  shape  of  a  great  hulking 
sculptor,  that  said  to  me  one  d;iy  when  I 
was  awfully  hungry  and  blue,  "  Why  don't 
you  go  abroad  and  study  a  while  ?  It  would 
be  a  sure  fortune  to  you.  All  you  need  is 
a  few  years  of  foreign  t(!acliing  to  become 
one  of  the  greatest  painters  of  the  time." 
lVrhai)s  he  was  making  fun  of  me  ;  but  I 


didn't   suspect   it   then,   although    I   have 
since.     However,  whether  he   was  jesting 
or  not,  his  words  put  a  new  idea  into  my 
head;  and  I  thought  upon  it  night  and  day. 
It  was  so  pleasant  to  know  that  a  tbrtnne 
could  be  made  in   any  honest  way,  lor  I 
must  confess  1  had  about  given  up  the  hope 
of  making  mine  legitimately  ;  but  h..w  could 
I  take  advantage  of  this  prelimiaary  step 
of  going  abroad,  when  1  had  not  a  dollar  in 
Iht"  world,  and  owed  fifteen  ibr  my  rent  ? 
At  last  I  hit  upon  a  plan,  if  it  only  succeed- 
ed.    I  had  an  uncle,  mother's  only  brother, 
somewhere  in  the  wilds  of  Maine.     He  was 
rich,  but  a  thorough  old  curmudgeon  ;    and 
I  hated  him  heartily  because  he  had  retuscl 
to  help  mother  after  father  died.     "  It  will 
do  no  harm  to  try  him,"  I   said  :  "  at  the 
worst,  he  can  only  refuse  me."     So  I  spent 
a  whole  day  in  composing  a  letter,  in  which 
I  told  him  of  my  tmdoubtcd  genius,  that 
required  a  little  ibreign  cultivation  to  make 
my  fortuiu' ;  of  my  inabliity  to  take  advan- 
tage of  this  rare  chance,  because  1   lacked 
the  one  thing  needful ;  and  1  entreated  hiiu 


MR.  JOHN. 


137 


10  ufo  to  give  tlio 
ury,  (luriii','  wliidi 
a  i'cw  lioiirs  now   • 
latioii,  (Iniwiii;^  n 
)iilil  ^I't  iv  fitter 
I  us  iiiiiny  yiMrn, 
|)liot();4rii[)lii'i's. 
I  luistuki!  ill   tliu 
Yes  :    '.lierc,   li:i« 
u  fatal  oiu's  tliaii 
,11(1  still  liavo,  tlio 
le  on   to  viilory. 
Ill  a  little  to  suc- 
i)w  that  Ml'.  John 
key  I  shall  o|ien 

it  was  a  fiend  or 
f  a  ^^reat  hulking? 
;  one  d;iy  whi'U  I 
blue,  "  Why  tlon't 
X  while  ?  It  would 
All  you  need  is 
aeliinLj  to  becomo 
ters  of  the  lime." 
fun  of  nie  ;  hut  I 

although  I  have 
er  he  was  jesting 
new  idea  into  my 
a  it  ni;;ht  and  day. 
low  that  a  ibrtune 

honest  way,  for  I 

given  up  the  hope 
tely  ;  but  In  nv  could 
is  preliuiinary  step 
had  not  a  dollar  in 
I'teen  ibr  my  rent  'i 
1,  if  it  only  ^ueceed- 
ilher's  only  brother, 
of  Maine.     He  was 

curmudgeon ;  and 
ause  he  had  refused 
her  died.  "  It  will 
1,"  I  said  :  "  at  the 
e  me."  So  I  spent 
iig  a  letter,  in  which 
oubted  genius,  that 
cultivatton  to  make 
liity  to  take  advan- 
.',  because  I  lacked 
ind  1  entreated  hiiu 


/  V 


by  the  sacred  memory  of  my  mother,  who 
died  from  poverty,  to  give  the  aid  to  her 
sou  that  he  had  refuse.l  to  her.     In  short,  I 
wrote  tt  letter  that  would  have  melted  the 
heart  of  an  English  oak.     Alter  two  months 
of  alternate  hope  ami  fear    I  receiveil  an 
•  answer.    I  knew  it  wa.s  from  him  before  1 
opened  it ;  because  my  name  was  eomineuced 
with  small  letters,  —  he  was  too  stingy  to  use 
largo  ones.     I  came  very  near   dying   of 
surprise,  when  I  opened  that  yellow  envel- 
ope,  and   saw  a  eheek  — yes,   actually  a 
check,  for  live  hundred  dollars  !     I  danced 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life  :  I  cried,  I  fairly 
howled  for  joy  ;  and  then  I  read  the  charm- 
ing epi.stle.     If  space  permitted,  I   would 
give  it  verbatim ;  but,  as  it  will  not,  I  can 
only  say  that  the  first  part  was  devoted  to 
abuH«,  ill  whieli  he  ealle.l  me"  a  lazy,  gude- 
fur-nothiu' doag,"  who  wanted  to  live  off  of 
his  rel.itions,  instead   of  working  like  an 
honest  man.     The  second  part  was  full  of 
advice  of  a  religious   nature.     The  third 
was  practical  ami  business-like.     Ho  said 
that  he  had  always  intended  to  leave  me 
five   hundred  tloUars  when  he   was  "dun 
with  thiu'.'s  airthly  ;  and  it  didn't  make  eiiy 
grate  dilVerenee  whether  I  had  it  now  or 
later."     How  thankful  I  was  that  I  had  it 
now  instead   of  later!     In  conclusion,  he 
said  that  I  "  needn't  expect  another  cent," 
from  him  "never;"  that  I   could  use  that 
sura  that  he  had  "  aimed  "  by  the  "  swet  "  of 
his   brow  in  "  riotus   livin"  if  I   pleased: 
that  was  "  nothin  "  to  him  ;  he  had  "  dun  " 
bis  duty  to  his  sister's  child  as  "  beseamed 
a  Christen."  And  then  he   added   that  he 
hoped  I  would  make  good  use  of  the  talents 
God  had  given  me,  and  not  paint  "  nakeil 
wimmen,  and  statues,  and  sich-like  abomi- 
nations, but  copy  natur',  fields,  and  trees, 
and  cattle  and  sheep." 

1  can  assure  you  that  I  didn't  spend 
much  time  over  the  soiled,  blue-line<l  letter. 
The  clean  white  check  was  what  pleased 
me  most;  and,  fearing  that  the  bank  might 
« suspend "  before  I  could  get  it  cashed,  I 
rushed  down  to  State  Street  with  the  im- 
portant air  of  a  heavy  financier  about  to 
"  tijihten  "  the  market. 


I  think  1  was  the   bapplest  man  living, 
the  day  I  sailed  frmu   New  York  with  my 
ticket  and  three  hundred  dollars   in   gold 
In  my  pocket.     Never  having  had  so  much 
money,  1  thought  it  an  almost  inexhausti- 
ble fund  ;  however,  it  was  not,  as  1  found 
to  my  se)rrow,  alter  I  had  lin-eri'd  a  few 
weeks  ill  I'aris.     When  I  reached   Rome, 
my  iiiteiide.l  destination,  I  had  i)ut  twenty 
Niipoleons  and  a  few  sous;  and  no  letter 
of  credit   to   back    the   amount  that  now 
seemed  proportionately  small  when  I  com- 
pared it  with  the  sum  that  I  had  started 
with.     IJut  what  ilid  I  care  ?     I  was  young 
ami  str.mg;  and  my  fortune  awaited    me. 
So  I  hired  a  little  attic  in  the  Via  IJ.ibiii- 
no,  for  whiih  I  paid  three  scudi  a  monili, 
iind  commenced  my  career  in  earnest. 

After  all   my  Boston    training,  I  found 
that  I  was  lainentai)ly  ignorant  and  stupid ; 
for  I  thought  I  had  only  to  paint  the  hand- 
some conladini,  the  picturescpie  children,  tho 
grand  and  inollow-tinted  ruins,  tho  broad   . 
sweeps  of  campn'ina,  to  sell  them  at  onco. 
In  my  self-conceit,  I  thought  that  I  was  tho 
only  artist  in  Home,  and  that  all  the  It.d- 
ian  nobles,  the  Knglish  lords,  and  Ameri- 
can nabobs,  were  waiting  with  open  purses 
and  impatient  hearts  to  buy  my  i.ielures  as 
fast  as  I  finished  them.     Fool  that  I  was  ! 
I  didn't  stop  to  think  that  Uonie  was  a 
city  of  painters.     I  didn't  know  that  there 
was  more   genius   hidden   in   one    narrow 
street  than  ever  existed  in  our  great   re- 
public.    It   took   almost   a  year  to   unde- 
ceive me,  and  teach  me  that  I  knew  nearly 
nothing.     Until  I  arrived  at  that  point,  of 
coursell  had  learneil  very  little;  ami  as,  .at 
the  same  time,  I  ibuud  myself  reduced  to 
abject  poverty,  my  condition  was  not  ono 
of  the  most  enviable.     Sometimes  I  laugh 
and  cry  together  in  thinking  of  the  ciwe.'*  I 
resorted   to,  the   better  to   hide   my   true 
situation  from  my  pwlrona  lU  casa.     Sho 
was. a  good  old  soul,  and  very  careful  of 
my  comfort,  —  almost  too    careful.      Ono 
morning  she  would  say,  "  Will  the  signor 
have  his  coll'ee  and  roll  at  eight?  "    And  1 
would  reply  carelessly,  although  my  stomach 
appealed  to  me  pitifully  at  the  word  coHee, 


...ij^masi^semsfr 


138 


MR.  JOHN. 


"No.  tlmnk  you,  Simiora  Tita:  1  fhall 
biviiklUHt  out  lliiH  ii>')rniiv.'."  'ri"'"  I 
woul<l  wiiiidfr  forlh  with  »n  iiwliil  iippiMilt' : 

nn.l    ill  ll>«'  '•"""•^''  "'■   '">■  """^    '   ""'"''' 
pcrlmiis  |>i'k  up  n  raw  I'lirrnt  at  «  ftull, 
wl.irli  I  woul.l  wiif.li  <l'>wn  with  a  .Iran-lit 
of  water  at  n  nri-lil)<>ri"H  I'oMiitain;   alli'r 
wliich    I  would  ri.'turn  to  my  work,  appa- 
ri'iilly  as  nuicli  rcrn'slu'il  m  tlioii'^li  I  Ii.kI 
l.riMklUHH'.l  lu-arlily  at  tlio"  (;ivco."  Anoili- 
.T  day  Aw  woul.l  ask  polit.-ly,  "  At  wliat 
liour  will  111.'  M^nor  <liiie '.' "    I  woiil.l  pivtend 
i„pt  lo  liciir  lur,  wlii.h  siave  im-  time  to  in- 
vent an  answer;  then,  when  she  repeated 
the  .piestioii.  I  would   say,  with   the   air  of 
one  eniin-lv  ahsorluMl  in   his  work,  "Oht 
it's  you.  Si-nora  Tita.     What  did  you  ask 
ine?     Wliiit  hour   will  I  dineV      Let  me 
see  :  I  think  it'«  to-day  I  dine  with  friends, 
at  the  llot.'l  de  lloma."     Ajiain,  allo;,'ellier 
too    niixioua  lor    my  welfare,    "  Will    the 
M;.nor  leave  hia  soile.l   linen?    Tlie  wash- 
woman has  been  several  times."  — "  Ah,  I 
have  fnr-olten  it !"  I  would  answer  blan.lly. 


'•  You  niiiy  tell  her  not  to  come  aj,'ain.  I 
have  (ound  another  who  is  better:  she  it 
lame,  and  I  earry  the  elothes  to  her." 

Poor  old  Si^iiora  Tita!  she  lhou-;ht  me 
the  best  and  most  tru'hful  of  bein-s. 
Thank  (lod !  she  never  knew  how  I  lie.l  to 
her;  slie  never  knew  that  I  washe.l  my 
clotlies  in  my  little  attie,  and  dried  them 
on  the  roof  fastened  to  nn  old  canvas- 
fVauie;  she  never  knew  that  my  shirts 
wen-  without  stareh,  thanks  to  the  artist's 
blouse  wliieh  1  wore  continually. 

Well,  two  years   passed    away  in    this 
wearisome  stmsisle ;   ami  I  I'^-gan  to  feel, 
niter  having  been   thoroughly   unlearned, 
that  1  was  at  last  learninj;  a  little  of  true 
ait :  vet  no  one  came  to  buy  my  pictures, 
or  evi'ii  to  see  them,  unless  ihey  stumbled,  i 
throie^h   a   mistake,  into  my  studio,  as  1  , 
insisted  upon  uallin-  my  attic.     I  declare  | 
to  (lod  that  no  poor  soul  was  ever  so  neg- 
leete.l  as   I  was  during  those  two  years! 
1  >hould   have    dii'.l   'it;'""    an>l   ^^S^'"   °^ 
gtaivation,  if  a  kind-hearted  dealer  in  the 
I'ia/.za  di  Spa-giia  had  not  bought  a  picture 
now  and  then  iroiu  sheer  pity,  affixed  an 


Italian  name  to  it,  and  sold  It  to  fomo  nu- 
Hiispeeting  compatriot  of  mine  for  nix 
'.lines  the  amount  he  gave  for  it. 

Hut   you   will   naturally   womler  why   I 
coul.i  not  sell  my  i.ietures,  as  well  as  other 
American   artists  who  live   in    Home.      I 
will  explain  to  you  why  I  I'oiild  not ;  be- 
cause an  explaiiali.m  is  ilue  to  myself,  lest 
you  shoul.l  tliink   that    my   p'etures   wero 
either  very  bad,  or  that  I  have  overcoloreil 
uiy  story,  which  is  a  sluiiile  statemiiiu  of 
facts.     In  the  lirst  place,  I  was  poor ;  and, 
l)ein.„'  poor,  I  could  not  give  dinners,  and 
invite  strau'.'ers  to  eat  them,  while  1  told 
thi-m  that  Lord  Knglish,  or  Lady  Russia,  or 
the   Countess  of  Fran.'.-,  or  Mrs.  Colonel 
America,  had  bought  my  "  Star  of  Hethle- 
liein,"    or  my  "  Kvander   and  iEneas,"  or 
some    other  eipially   interesting    subject ; 
nor  could  1  have  a   large   studio  ilecked 
with  brie-a-l.rac.  where  I  could  give  weekly 
reccpti.ms,  anil  invite  people  to  m-et  all 
the   eelel.rilies;   nor   had    I    a   .Iress-eoat, 
white  tie,  and  lavender  gloves,  with  which 
to  make   my  appearance  at  bankers'  balls, 
and    resi.l.Mit   tea-parties.      I    was   wily   a 
hard-working  young  man,  who  shut  himself 
up  in  a  din'iy  attic,  aixl  devoted  his  lile  to 
his   art,  instead   of  ogling   hidii's  on   the 
I'incio,   or  promenading   the   Corso.      So 
what  chance  was  there  lor  me  V     Although, 
as  you  perceive,  I  did  not  live  luxuriously 
in  the  Eternal  City,  I  lived   wisely,  and 
much  as  did  the  old  philosophers,  whom 
we  admire  and  hold  up  as  examples  of 
lieroic  fortitude  and  self-denial,  though  we 
despise  an<l  neglect  their  prototypes  of  the 
present  day. 

Well,  time  went  on.  I  was  without  money ; 
and  the  dealer  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna 
had  closed  his  heart  against  me,  because  I 
su-'gested  that  he  might  give  me  one-fourth 
of"  what  ho  received  for  my  pictures. 
Again  ruin  stared  me  in  thei'ace;  and  I 
dt"spaired,  and  shut  myself  up,  and  wept 
until  hunger  drove  me  out  to  seek  a  carrot, 
my  staple  article  of  tbo.l,  — it  is  astonish- 
in.r  how  much  nourishment  there  is  in  a 
carrot.  At  last  1  grew  homerick  (how 
absurd  I),  when  1  had  no  home,  and  began 


««^»»«**r*s!*»!««» 


jixin'n»iiiiar<i»ir«» 


MR.  JOHN. 


139 


solil  It  to  fomo  Hii- 
()(■    iniiu!    for   Hix 
vc  tor  it. 
illy   woniltT  why   I 

iTf,  ns  well  ;is  "tliiT 
live  in  IIdiiU'.  I 
ly  I  ('((iilil  nut ;  be- 
1  iliii'  to  inyt-i'lf,  Wst 
t  my  i.'i'tuivH  wore 
t  I  Imvi!  ovcri'olDroil 

(Implt!    HtlltClllCIU    of 

•f,  I  w;is  |M)()r ;  imd, 
[)t  liive  diiini'rf,  and 
t  tlifin,  wliim  1  told 
h,  or  Laily  Kusciii,  or 
ii'(!,  or  Mrs.  Colonel 
my  "Star  of  Uftlile- 
k-r  and  ^Ent-aK,"  or 
inttTi'ittin^'    Hnliji'ct; 
lur^i.'   studio  dt-rkcd 
e  I  could  give  wwkly 
!  jH-ople  to  mi'i!t  all 
had    I    a   drfss-coat, 
er  gloves,  with  which 
\w.  at  hankers'  halls, 
■ties.      I    was   only   a 
nan,  who  shut  Idmself 
nd  devoted  his  lile  to 
iv'liiv   ladies   on   the 
lin'^   ihu   Corse.      So 
re  tor  n»e  V     Although, 
1  not  live  luxuriously 
,  I  lived   wisely,  and 
il  philosophers,  whom 
I  up  as  examples  of 
self-denial,  though  we 
iheir  prototypes  of  the 

1. 1  was  without  money ; 
he  Piazza  di  Spagna 
against  me,  because  I 
ight  give  me  one-fourth 
,ed  for  my  pictures, 
me  in  the  iace;  and  I 
t  myself  up,  and  wept 
ne  out  to  seek  a  carrot, 

tbod,  — '  it  is  astonish- 
irishment  there  is  in  a 

grew  homerick    (how 
ad  no  home,  and  began 


t 


'» 


to  think  that  after  all  my  fortune  wa.«  behind 
nie,  in  ilial  land  across  tlie  si'a,  —  dear,  gen- 
erous, appreeialive  America ;  but  how  could 
I  •'ct  tlu'i-eV  I  had  no  •^ood  uncle  down  in 
Maine  to  apply  to;  for  he  was  dout^  \yitli  ; 
"tbin-s  aiillily."  ami  hail  letl  his  properly 
toliMiia  a  toNvndionne  as  a  monnnicnt  of  his 
g.'iierosity  ;  and  I  had  notliin','  in  the  world 
to  convert  into  immey  Hrtvo  about  a  hun- 
dred canvasses  covered,  more  or  less 
thickly,  Willi  paint. 

One  day,   when    I   was  more  than  ever 
disgusted"  with    carrots    ami    water,   with 
wasliiie.'  and  drying,  and  lying  to  my  land- 
huly,  a  liappy  accident  occnrrcil.     A  good- 
natured    Kn.;lishman    came    pullhi','    ami 
blowing  into  my  ilen.     He  was  looking  tin- 
a   celebrate.l    French    artist,   whose    name 
mine  resemlilcd,  and  never   doubled  lor  a 
moment  that   I  was  lie.    I  supjiose,  virtuous 
reader,  you  think  it  would  have  been  nior.' 
honest  if  I  had  undeceived  him;  but,  good 
Lordl  1  was  starving,  ami  I  had  no  notion 
of  losing  a  chance  to  save  my  lilc.     Well, 
he  looked  around,  asnired   me  in  very  bad 
French    that   he    was   charmed    with    my 
•'sketcbe-;"  selected  one  of  the  best,  and 
oifeicd    1111^    fifty   pounds  for  it;    which    1 
accejited    witli    a    readiness    that    almost 
frightened    him   into   suspicion.     Do   you 
suppose  he  would  have  bought  it  if  he  had 
known  how  poor  I  was,  and  that  I  was  uoi 
the  iMviichman  he  had  heard  of;  or  if  he 
had  undiTstood  the  language  he  murdered 
•well  enough  to  know  that  mine  wascipially 
bad,  and  theielbre  I  could  not  be  any  thing 
but  an  ignorant,  vulgar  American  ?     How- 
ever, without  an  ida^f  how  he  Wiw  being 
sold,  he  gave  me  a  check  for  lifty  pounds  ; 
ordered  tlie  picture  done  up,  — it  was  m.t 
Ijir^e,  —  and  trudged  oil'  with  it,  fearful  lesl 
it  might  be  changed  tor  a  copy  if  he  left  it 
to.be   sent.     1   can  imagine  that  iiicture 
adorning  the  wall   of   a   stately   Knglish 
mansion,  and   the    jwmpous,    self-satislied 

owner  showing  it  as  an  "original  of  II , 

immensely  clever,  but  very  eccentric,  as 
most  Frenchmen  are."  1  am  thankful  that 
my  si'^nature,  wliich  I  always  make  as  illegi- 
ble as  possible,  will  never  betray  me. 


You  can  naturally  suppose  that  I  wa-  not 
lim.;  ill  rolling  I'j'  "'>'  cinvasses,  and  start- 
lug"  for  the  "  1-and  of  the  fiee."  I'oor 
Si^'uoraTital  I'oor  oM  attic  in  the  Via 
ilabiiino,  wlioso  every  spot  of  lloor  I  have 
washed  with  my  tears  !      Wai  in,  sunny  roof 

that  dried  my  clothes  I     Hard idi  where 

1  rested  my  lon;i,  tired  limbs  1  Juicy  ear- 
rots  and  >])  irkling  water !  Adieu  ;  for  I  shall 
see  you  no  more.  1  have  fifty  pounds ;  1  am 
rich";  and  I  am  starting  for  America,  for 
Boston,  where  my  Ibrtiine  awaits  me. 
Such  were  the  thoii-hts  that  lloaled  through 
mv  mind  as  I  drove  triunipliantl.v  away 
from  the  grim  door  that  had  opened  tin-  me 

so  mauv  limes.     What  a  sc to  enlarge 

„p„„!  ■  Hi.t  here  I  am  half  ibrongli  my 
storv.  and  I  have  not  yd  begun  to  tell  you 
h,)w  I  found  my  wife,  Mr.  .John,  and  all  the 
good  things  that  have  lately  (alien  to  my 

lot. 

Well,  to  go  on  with  this  Irh  n'riliqn''  bin- 
/oire,    1    aiTiveil    in     Uoston    one   drin/ly 
mm-ning    iu    October,   by    the    night-train 
from  New  York,  after  three  years'  absence, 
sleepv,  tired,  and  hungry,  with   a  shabby 
valise     somewhat   collapsed,    an    immenso 
roll  of  canvas  done  ui)  in  a  tin  liox,  ami  a 
one-dollar     giT'en-lwck      in      iny     pocket. 
Where  was  I  to  goV     I  had  no  friends  to 
welcome   me,  no  home  awaited  me  ;  so  I 
letl  my  treasures  in  the  charge  of  a  depot 
clerk.'took  a  check  lor  them,  and  then  wan- 
dered  into   the   dirty   "  saloon."  where    a 
crimpy   girl    dispensed   muddy  coll'ee  and 
(labbv  biscuit.      I  invested  twenty-tive  cents 
in  "ix'frcshments,"  and  then  started  out  to 

find  a  studio. 

It  was  scarce  sunrise:  nevertheless  I 
.lire-.'ted  my  steps  toward  that  modern  tem- 
ple of  art,  the  Studio  liuilding,  where  I 
found  a  yawning  porter  dragging  the  dirt 
over  the  rope-carpeted  stairs  with  a  stubby 
broom.  "  Are  there  any  studios  to  let  'I  " 
I  iufiuired  with  as  foreign  a  drawl  as  I 
could  produce.  It  commanded  immediate 
attention.  "  Yes,  sir,"  he  said  respectfully  : 
"  there  is  a  small  one  just  vacated :  the 
artist  has  gone  South,  and  lett  il  to  be  let 
furnished."    1   looked   at    it:    it   was    an 


140 


MU.  JOHN. 


liiiiuov.-menl  .m  my  Houmn  Htili",  mvI  1h- 

li„V  tw..lv  .••.In.k.  I  WUi.-t.ll.li4*.Ml  »vltli 
my  nlvn.ler  \m:iVvh-  ieu<ly  lu  UH.ive  lh.' 
Ion  line  lh.it  wa<  Kiir.i  to  <m>iiii'  to  m:  Hut  ' 
ha.l  l.iti-mM  li-'Mii  I'ii^'l  •■xi'i-rl'iif"  tl"H  •>"'' 
iiUMl  l.avo  liH.ll  wl.il.-  hi- wall-.,  M.  I  ..■l.rt.MJ 
u  U.M..1  i.irliin-  u(  ii  [lU'iiHluiJ  miKj.'.'t,  ami 

.lurit.l  il   I"  II  'l»'i'l''<'  "«"'■  ''>>  *"  **'"""  ' 
oIUto.I  il  r..r  wli;it.-vci-  luir.-  lio  (iUmm-'I  t.i 
j,„y  im-.     Ill-   Kiivi-   111.-    iliiity  .Lillui-fi  (it 
was  woilh  two  liuii.ln-.l),  wliidi  I  iim'l.t.-.l 
tlianktullv  ;  tin-  at  last  I  lia.l  i-t)im-  t..  nii.l.-r- 
mau.l  tli.it   the  ri-al  valii.-  ..t'  my  l'i<tui(-J' 
wa!.  wUt  tlo-y  woul.l  l.i-in.^,<.tUfi'wiHi!  ih.-y 
wi-io  ....•; V  .•aiiva^  ami  Iiaint.     'Hiat  im-a-iv 
KUiu  ..I  thirty  .lollwH   ki'i.t  lh.-  w..ir  from 
ti,..  il.M.r  wliiUi  I  i.wk.-il  arotiml,  ami  ma.h- 
th.-  i.ivli.irm.iry  arran^'.-uH-nts  that  hh..iil'l 
h.ii.l  lilt-  to  Hii.Tfus  ami  I'orimii).     For  Houm 
n-miuM  that  I  t-ainiot  uxplain,  I  oxpi-.-t.-.l 
my  arrival  w.)iiKl  en-ate  a  Uttlo  Mir  in  tla- 
w.'.il.l  of  art.    I  th.m.^ht  it  would  sjradually 
h-ak  ...It  that  I  ha.l  ivtiiriu-.l  with  nm.ilu-r.. 
of  htmlics  ;  that  all  the  artists  wv.iihl  llofk 
to  Hoe  them,  then  all  the  people ;  that  my 
Mu.lio  wo.il.l    he    nile.l    with   appr.-.-iativ.' 
visitors,  that  my  pi.ttircs  w..iil.l  Hell,  aii.l 
that  ill  a  little  while  I  shouM  be  on  the 
hi-h   roa.l   t.)   prosperity.     My  first   xtep. 
which  1  now  know  w.is  a  li.olish  one,  was  to 
make  tViemls  with  the  artists.     They  came, 
luokeil  at  my  pi.lares,  praise-l  them  to  my 
iaee.  ami  then  w.-nt  away,  ami  tonml  i'ault 
with  them.     I  pla.e.l  several  of  tlu^  best  on 
i...\hil.llion    in   the  various    j^alleries;    hut 
th.  y  atiraeie.l  little  or  no  attention.     Who 
ha.l  heard  ..I'  me?     I  eoul.l  not  be  a  eele- 
brated  artist,  or  Mime  one  would  have  km.wn 
of  me.  1  don't  suppose  they  ever  stoiipe.l  to 
think  whether  lliiui.u'l  or  i.cimard.)  eame 
into  ]>ul<lic  favor  with  their  lirst  pictur.-. 
Hut  what  else  could  I   expect  of  Boston. 
It  is  such  a  hi.i;h-t(me.l  city,  it  has  such  a 
lofty  standard  ..f  art  ami  liu-raiure,  such 
finely  eultivatiMl   tastes,  such   precise  dis- 
t-rim'iiiation !  of  course  it  could  mjt  decide 
at  once  in  f.ivor  of  a  new-comer.     My  suc- 
cess mi;:ht  be  slow  in  comin;.';  still,  I  never 
d.mbted  but  that  it  woul.l  come  in  the  eiul. 
Aceordin-ly  1  waited  patiently  six  montlis, 


ih.-n  impatiently  kU  morn,  ami  at  ihe  oml 
„(  that  limo  1  bewail  to  itu»p.-.t  tint  my 
fortmm  was  no  nearer  limn  it  wan  at  Iho 
f„.,t  .I..V  ..f  my  arrival.  My  ph-tnres  dhl 
mitpleiwe:  m)  one  e..uhl  tell  win  :  nu.l  I 
wa«  not  Mire  myself  wh..ih.'r  ih.-y  w.-ro 
.M,o.l  or  ha.l.  ILwevei-,  I  .li.l  mana-e  to 
sell  en.mzh  to  ke.'p  m.ul  au.l  body  l..  M-ih.-r, 
ami  that  w.is  somelliin;.,'.  I'erhaps  il  wai 
as  mu.-h  as  I  eouhl  rea*.mahly  expect,  see- 
in^   t la-re   were  so  many  belter    p.iinti-m 

than  I. 

At   last    some    otio    su;;';e»te.l    that    I 
sh..ul.l  paint  autumn  s.-enery,  -  s..m.-lhin-^' 
f.imiliar   au.l   homelike,   smnethin-    bri;ilit 
and   cheerful,  instead   «)f  those    sa.l,  ^ray 
lan.lseapes  that  l  ha.l  put  all  my  s.ml  into. 
It  was  a  new  i.lea:  perhaps,  after  all,  tlu-re 
lay   the   s..urce   of  my  success.     So,  with 
hi^h  h..p.-s,  I  pa.ke.l    my  traps,  t.)..k  my 
c,unp-slo.)l,  sk.-fhin-,'  easel,  ami  bi-^  (.Tceii 
umbrella,  au.l  starte.l  for  New  Hampshire. 
il  was  a  warm,   dreamy  aftern..ou,  late 
ill    Sepi.-mber  ;   the  trees  wens   bc^rinnin-,' 
to  turn  from  -^rei-n  to  vivi.l  sjold  an.l  re.l ;  a 
violet    ha/e    hun-  over  the  hills,  and  the 
valleys  were  full  of  silver  mist.     I'.-rch.-d 
bi-h   up..n    a  woo-ly  hill,  my  e.asel    sim-lc 
fn-mlv    into    the    groun.l,   my   eamp-sKiol 
prop'peil   up  with  stones,   and   my   H'een 
umbi-ella  sprea.l  over  me,  I  was  tryiiv,'  to 
.rive     the     (inishin;,'     tou.-lics     to    a   long 
stretch  of  landscape,  mountains  in  the  per- 
spective, -real,  beetling  precipices  in   the 
ini.ldle    dist.ince,   ami    a    lan-uid,  reedy 
river  in  the  for.-'^round,  ereepin;,'  betw.-en 
clumps   of  scarlet   and  gol.l  elms.     I  had 
lai.l  on  the  color  thick  and  warm,  with  a 
free,  Iwhl  touch  ;  yet  for  some  reason  it  .lid 
not  s.-e.n  so  tender,  and  still  so  brilliant,  as 
the  cviuisite  tints  of  nature  which  I  was 
trviu','  to   copv.      Thrne   was    something 
ermiraml  tawdry  in  the  eflect  that  i)leased 
me    less    than    any   thin:,'    I   bml   done. 
A.uunm  scenery  is  beautiful,  with  its  f..liagO 
of  a  thousand  womlrous  shaiies  ami  tones, 
its   sweet  harmony,  its  strikin-  contrasts, 
its  -or.,'e.ous  .lecay,  but  what  human  haml, 
with  the  i.osiiive  m.-.lium  of  canvas   and 
paint,  can  imitate  that  which  the   mystio 


Mil.  JOHN. 


Ill 


ivnil  i»t  llie  pnil 
MiK|M'(t   ili.it  my 

,11  it  WliM  lit  tilt) 
My  plrtlirr't  <licl 
It'll  wli\  :  nii'l   I 

ll'liuT     111'')'    W.MO 

dill  mikimu'ti  til 
ml  Idcly  lo.'i'llii'r, 

I'.  rliii|c*  It  w;i« 
iilily  i'X|K'i't,  Kt'iv 
■   bi'iti'i'    ii.ilntiTH 

Ul^'^l'Htl'il  lli:it  I 
ii'i'y,  —  hoiiiclhin'^ 
(i(>iiietliiii;j>  l)ri;»lit 
'  ihoHo  Hiiil,  uniy 
,  111!  my  MDiil  ii'to. 
ips,  iil'H'r  nil,  tliiTO 
iiici'i'sK.  So,  with 
iv  trup'',  tiHik  my 
H'l,  ami  Itig  ^reua 

Nt^w  lliiiuiMliiii). 
,iy  iit'lcniooii,  lato 
•H  wep!  bi'^iiniiing 
il  fjolil  mill  It'll;  a 
the  hillH,  iiml  ihn 
er  mi!*t.  I'lTclu'il 
1,  my  p.isi'l  siiH'k 
il,  my  oanip-alool 
g,  anil  my  ntv^^n 
ic,  I  WII8  tvyiii'.;  to 
lUi'lics  to  a  long 
luiitains  ii»  tlu;  per- 

preciiiices  in   the 

a  lan:^niil,  recily 
,  en!t'I)iii;f  hflwci-n 
(Told  olms.      I  had 

and  warm,  with  a 
•  some  reason  it  did 

still  so  brilliant,  as 
lature  which  I  was 
re  was  something 
)  efl'eet  that  pk-ased 
hin:^  I  had  done, 
tit'ul,  with  its  t'oliago 
s  shiidea  and  toni'S, 
!  strikin*;  contrasts, 
t  what  human  hand, 
inn  of  canvas  and 
t  which  the   mystic 


n„„..r.  of  the   f.o.t.kln.,'  have  ton.ln'd   ...   that  over  mad.-  n.y  Iwa-t  st,.p  l-'itln,'  wa. 
i!VNo   no-inHpiteofn.y  dcHire    to    be    M.dd.nly    addre I    by    a    pr-t.y 

,       .t  .Lost  blinded  me,  as,  lor   the   and  lank,  with  a  hatchet  taee.  and  a  «. t 

n  dawned   npon    ,ne    that   this   bnndl..  of  h.dr  and  b-ard  ;  bn.  tny  eves  a 

I.        m  not  n.y>W«.  and  that  I   rather  ,ood 1  the  bnc  o,  "./"-'-' 

1.1  her-  as  I  had  In  every  thin,   very  bad.     It  -nust  have  been  my  t„n  b.y 

eU         T li  ron.ddy   diseonra,e,l.    I    leaned    and  awkwardness  that  tnade  ,ne  .so  r.^l  e„- 
t    heai     lej.retedly  upon   n.y  hand,  and  !  loi.s    ....d   stnpid    when    I    ene.mnte.vd 
r.!k  vav    ,.to  the  nlysterious  distance,    woman.     Now.  as  I   looked    ..p    and      . 

""  ,  •,  ,  ,  ,,,,.,,  ,11,    I  wi-l.  V     For  the  '  those  beantifnl  ey»'s  tJi/.m;  stead.ly  at    me, 

w..sl..n,.-l.ut  -'■''-"     ,;";,^   w  n.v-land  the  p.-etty  ...onth  jnst  parted  In  a  little 

t   nw     t  -li.lla   bill-,  lor  a.  that  .,.o,ne..t  sink  into  the    ea.-th.  «reen    ;-.->'-; 

Ided  it  .no.-o  than  a.,y  tl.i...  el-e.     My  all.     There  was  -;--;  ;,";"- 

financial  ..flairs  were  a^am  In  a  most  '1'^"  :':;"'::;;'"..;,',..^.,; ,  „,,..„  ^_ 

t'oiiraj;.!.'^ 


,,„..r..ion.  .mil  that  was  ahvays   lollow.n',' eonve.-sat.on  took  i 


a  eai.^e  of  depi'e^sion  and  di-salislaetion 
I  never  was  pleased  with  any  ihiiej;  when 
I    was   out   of   mo.iey.     For   nearly    th.re 
nionlhs   1    had  been  wanderiii;,'  about  the 
country,  r.vin;;  in  the  woods,  and  workin;,' 
like  a'slave,  only  to.be    disappointed    at 
hist  with  what    1    had   done.     This    little 
village  in  Northern  New  ll.impsliire,  wheie 
I    h;ul    pitched    my  tent    lor    a   few   days, 
otlei-ed  ve.-y  little  attraclio.i    to    pleas.n-e- 
seekers;  still,  it  was  a  eharinin','  spot  for  an 
artist,  a.id  I  was  loath  to  leave  it  until   I 
had  consi^rned  some  of  its   slrikin-  points 
to  canvas;  but  how  could  I  remain  when 
I  had  not  enough  money  to  pay  a  week's 
board  ut  the  lly-iidiabited  little    inn  V    Lost 
in  these  painli.l  reflections,  I  did  not  hear 
appioachin-  steps,  nor  did  I  look  up,  until 
a   shadow  was    thrown  across  my  canvas 
and  a  sweet,  clear  voice  said,  '•  Oh,  what 
a  pretty  picture  !  "     1  raised  my  eyes,  and, 
Htandin;'   between   me  and  the  level  rays 
of  the  siin,  was  what  1  mi-ht  have  thou,;!.! 
a    vision,  only    for    her    speakin:^ ;    but. 
althou-h  I  was   dazzled    and   sui'prised,  I 


"How  in  the  world  can  yon  eoi)y  all 
thi'-e  lbin'.,'s  so  exact?  " 

"  I  don't  think  they  are  very  exact,  and 
that  tronldes  me." 

"  Cioodness  Kraeions !  why  it's  as  natural 
„^  lii;.,  _  Farmer  .Jones's  mill,  Mr.  John's 
meadow.  Cherry  lliU,  and  Aimmw  Creek, 
—  why,  I  should  know  it  all  ni.ywl.ei-e." 

"Should  you?     I'm  ve.-y  «lad." 

"Do  tell'  me  how  you  ^'o  to  work  to 
make    such   a    picture.     Of  all    thiii-s,    I 


,hoiild  like  to  "know   how  to  draw.     Is  it 
verv  dillieult  ?  " 

"  Not  vei-y.  when  one  has  a  talent  for 

it." 

"  Oh,  a  talent  t  but  can't  you  learn  unless 

you  have  a  talent?" 
"Not     isily." 

»  Is  that  so  ?     Well,  don't  you  get  lone- 
son  e  here  all  alone?" 
"  Soi.ieti.nes." 

»  I  suppose.  thou;,di,  that  when  you're  at 
wo.-k,  you'd  rather  be  alone,  just  as  I 
would  when  I  read.     I  like   to  come  here, 

.   „,.,,„... it's  so  still  1  I  can  think  better.     I  like  this 

.oon  discovered  that  it  was  .,o  a,.,el,  only    so  nn.ch  -  "  J-^in,  at_  a  book  in  her  hand, 
a  pretty  ,irl  in  a  eand^=  ^^  ;.v.  s.aw       ;;      .  > -n.  J  ^  ^  ^  ^^d  it  amon,  Mr. 

i;ri:::;i::::;::e^:;;;:::=aaoh.t.sb.^ 

than  1  wan ;  lor  the  only  thing  in  the  world  |  so  well. 


".jsi^^f^Si^s 


■IHi.i!i4'i-l.-^'ll- Ju^L-. 


142 


MB.   JOHN, 


"  Then  you  like  to  read  ?  " 
"  Very  iiurU,  bfcuiise  I've  nothing  else 
to  do.  Ml-.  Juhn  won't  let  me  work,  nor  >ro 
to  the  vinii;j;e,  nor  got  ac(iuiunted  with  peo- 
ple ;  so  I  should  be  awful  dull  if  it  wasn't 
for  hooks." 

»  Who  is  Mr.  John  ?  " 

"Mr.  John?  why  he's  the  gentleman  I 
live  with  :  he's  the  same  as  a  father  to  me." 

"  Then  you  have  no  father  nor  mother  ?  " 

"  No." 

»  Nor  I  either :  I  lost  both  when  I  was  a 

very  little  boy." 

"  And  you  had  no  one,  like  Mr.  John  to 
take  eare  of  you  V  " 

"  No  one  :  I've  always  taken  care  of  my- 
self." The  lovely  eyes  were  full  of  pity,  and 
the  sweet  mouth  looked  very  sorry  for  me, 
so  I  thou;4ht  I  would  chanijje  the  subject. 
"])o  you  live  near  here  ?  "  I  said. 

»  Just  behind  the  hill,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road,  in  the  great  stone  house." 

'•  Ah !  a  very  pretty  place ;  and  is  Mr. 
John's  wife  kind  to  you  V  " 

She  lau^died  a  short,  musical  laugh.  "Mr. 
John's  wiib  !    Why,  he  nev.r  had  any.'' 
"  And  you  live  there  alone  with  him  V  " 
"  No,  not  alone  :   there's  Ben  and  Tom, 
the  hired  men;  and  Mrs.  Smith,  the  house- 
keeper -,  and  Sallie,  the  kitchen-girl." 

It  was  astonishing  how  comfortable  I  was 
beginning  to   feel  in  the  presence  of  this 
simple   cliild   of  nature.    I   even  had  the 
courage  to  ask  her  in  the  boldest  manner 
by  wliat  name  she  was  called  ;  to  which  she 
frankly  replied,  "Kate:  Mr.  John  calls  ine 
Kate,  and  the  servants  Miss  Kate." 
"  Well,  may  I  call  you  Miss  Kate." 
"  I  don't  know  — just  as  you  like,"  with  a 
little  confusion.     '•  But  perhaps  Mr.  John 
wouldn't  be  pleased  if  he  knew  I  was  talk- 
ing  to   a   stranger.     He's  very  particular 
about  it :  he  never  lets  me  talk  to  any  one ; 
so  I  think  I  must  go." 

"  Ob,  no!  not  just  yet.  Wouldn't  you  like 
to  be  painted  in  a  picture  'I  See,  here  is  a 
little  canvas;  if  you  will  stand  still  jiist  as 
you  are  I  will  make  a  drawing  of  you." 

She  was  delighted,  and  promised  to  stand 
very  still.     I  had  almost  finished  an  exqui- 


site little  sketch  of  her,  into  which  1  had 
l)Ut  a  great  deal  of  life  and  feeling,  when 
a  sudden  crash  in  the  underbrush  startled 
me  ;  and  a  great  dog  leaped  out  from  among 
the  trees,  followed  by  an  elderly  man,  with 
a  kind  though  sad  face.  He  was  dressed 
in  a  hunting-suit,  and  carried  a  gnu  and 
game-bag. 

« O  Mr.  John  !  "  cried  Kate,  rushing 
toward  him  eagerly.  "  Look,  do  look  1  I  ain 
having  my  picture  painted  1  " 

Mr.  John  seemed  very  angry  as  he 
glanced  from  one  to  the  other  in  surprise; 
but  perhaps  something  in  my  homely,  stui)id 
face  re-assured  him,  for  he  drew  near,  and 
looked  over  my  shoulder. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  he  cried,  bringing  his  hand 
heavily  down  on  my  knee,  "  it's  like  herl 
Imt  what  in  the  Devil  are  you  <loiiig  here, 
Kate  V  What  are  you  doing  here  with  this 
stranger  ?  " 

I  didn't  like  to  see  him  angry  with  the 
poor  girl ;  so  I  explained  gently  how  she  had 
accidentally  come  upon  me,  and  how  I  asked 
her  to  stand  for  a  sketch. 

"  It's  the  first  time  ?  You're  sure  it's  the 
fn-st  time  ?  "  he  said,  looking  suspiciously 
from  one  to  the  other.    "  Tell  mo  the  truth, 

Kate." 

"  Of  course,"  she  replied,  laughing  and 
blushing  a  little,  "  I  have  never  seen  him 
before." 

This  seemed  to  appease  Mr.  John ;  for  ho 
patted  heron  the  head,  called  her  a  good 
girl,  and  then  told  Jier  to  run  away  home. 
She  looked  lingeringly  at  the  picture,  and,  I 
thought,  lingeringly  at  me,  as  she  turned 
away,  followed  by  the  great  dog.    After  she 
hadgonc,  Mr.  John  came,  and  sat  down  near 
me.  pushing  over  my  umbrella  and  color-box. 
"  See  here,  young  man,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to 
have  a  litde  talk  with  you.    I  like  yoiw  face : 
I  believe  you're  honest.  You're  the  first  man 
Kate  has  ever  talked  with  alone.     She's 
romantic  and  silly,  and  it  would  be  just  like 
her  to  fall  in  love  with  some  otie.     Now,  I 
don't  want  any  of  that  nonsense,  you  under- 
stand.    I  brought  her  uj),  and  educated  her 
to  be  with  me,  and  to  take  care  of  me  when 
I'm  old ;  and  I  don't  intend  to  lose   her. 


'jmB#j...iil'<lli«'***'^'-"  ' 


ftw  w  i.MiNWHW-^-U'-J'"'  ''*-"-" ' '  '"*" 


Wtrrtmm 


MR.  JOHN. 


143 


to  wliich  1  had 
1  luiUliij;,  whi!Q 
jrbriish  stiivtled 
out  t'rom  iiiiiong 
Mcrly  iniin,  with 
llo  was  dressed 
riud  a  guii    and 

I  Kati',  rushing 
}k,  ilo  look  1  I  am 
1" 

•y  aw^vy  as  he 
Lher  in  surprise ; 
iiy  homely,  stupid 
i  drew  near,  and 

(ringing  his  hand 
e,  "  it's  like  herl 
1  you  (loiii'i  here, 
ing  liere  with  this 

n  ani^ry  with  tlie 
;ent!y  how  she  had 
e,  and  liow  I  asked 

i'ou're  sure  it's  the 
oking  suspiciously 
■  Tell  mo  the  truth, 

ied,  lau;^hing  and 
c   never  seen  him 

e  Mr.  John ;  for  he 
called  her  a  good 
o  run  away  home. 
:  the  picture,  and,  I 
me,  as  she  turned 
eat  dog.    After  she 
!,  and  sat  down  near 
)rella  and  color-box. 
he  said,  "I  want  tD 
u.    I  like  your  face : 
You're  the  first  man 
with  alone.     She's 
itwoulil  be  just  like 
some  one.     Now,  I 
nonsense,  you  under- 
1]),  and  educated  her 
ake  care  of  me  when 
intend  to  lose   her. 


Now,  I'd  like  to  have  her  portrait  painted 
ri'.'ht  well ;  but  I've  never  had  it  done,  be- 
cause I'm  afraid  of  Artists.  They're  a 
precious  bad  lot,  the  most  of  them.  See 
here,  are  you  married  Y  "  —  "  No,"  I  stam- 
mered out;  i'or  the  very  thought  frightened 
me.  "  I'm  sorry  for  that,"  he  returned. 
*'  However,  if  you  will  promise  me  that  you 
won't  encourage  Kate  to  fall  in  love  with 
you,  nor  won't  fall  in  love  with  her  yourself, 
I'll  let  you  paint  her  portrait ;  and  you  may 
come  to  the  house  to-morrow,  and  begin  it. 
But  first  you  must  promise  me." 

How  could  I  do  that  ?  I  was  sure  alrea- 
dy that  if  I  saw  her  again  I  might  fall  in 
love  with  her ;  but  I  needed  money,  so  I  tried 
to  resolve  that  I  would  not.  Though  I  gave 
the  desired  promise  rather  unwillingly,  I 
was  honest  enough  in  my  intention. 

That  night  I  put  a  few  questions  to  the 
landlor.1  of  the  inn  about  Mr.  John,  which 
elicited  the  following  remarks  :  — 

"  No  one  knows  notliin'  about  him  ;  he 
came  here  ten  year  ago,  an'  bought  that 
place  of  Curnel  Simpson's,  an'  paid  ready 
cash  down :  then  he  went  oft";   an'  in  a  few 
weeks  he  cum  back  with  a  little  gal  eight 
or  nine  years  oki,  an'  an  old  woman  to  take 
care  of  his  house,  an'  another  servant-gal, 
an'  two  men.     Then  lots  of  furniture  cum 
by  rail  to  the  town  below,  an'  was  carted 
up  here,  —  cheers,  an'  sophys,  an'  a  grand 
piany,   an'    Lord   only  knows   what   else! 
They  say  it's  most  like  a  palace  up  there  : 
though   I've   never   seen   it ;    an'   I  don't 
know  who  has,  for  that  matter,  for  no  one 
never  sets  loot  in  his  door ;  an'  he  never 
■was  in  a  house  in  this  district ;    an'  the 
men    an'  the    servant-gal    don't   speak   to 
any  one,   more'n   to   say   'good-day,'  the 
same  as  their  master  ;  an'  they  never  any 
of  'em  come  to  church,  no  more'n  a  pack  o' 
heathens.     The   little  gal   never  went  to 
school  to  the  'cademy ;  an',  now  she's  grown 
up,  she  never  comes  to  the  village.     They 
say  that  he's  edicated  her  himself,  an'  that 
she's  a  i)rop(.'r  pretty  gal ;  but  no  one  thinks 
she's  his  child,  an'  they  do  say  queer  things 
about  her,"  —  Here  I  interrupted  the  old 
gossip  with  such  a  sudden  "Good-night," 


that  I  left  him,  his  mouth  wide  open  and 
his  eyes  staring  wilh  surprise. 

The   next   morning  I  pri  senti'd  myself 
at  the  stonli  houses  with  canvas,  Ciiscl,  and 
]taint-box,    ready   to    begin    my    jileasant 
labor.     Kate  and  Mr.  John  receiveil  me  in 
a  large,  hiindson-ely-fin-nished  room  which 
they  called  the  library,  and  which  was  to 
to  be  my  stud'o  while  I  was  painting  the 
portrait.     My  charmiu'^  sitter  was  full  of 
delight  at  the  thought  of  any  break  iu  the 
monotony  of  her  life.     She  took  a  dozen 
dilTerent,  graceful  positions,  arran'zing  her 
simple  dress  and  blueril»bons  with  bewitch- 
ing coipietry.     I  don't  think  any  one  was 
ever  so  happy  as  1  during  those  (irst  days. 
I  didn't  quite  understand  how  happy  I  was, 
or  perhaps  I  might  have  been  conscience- 
smitten  to  find   that  it  was   perlc-ct  bliss 
only  to  be  able  to  look  at  Kate,  with  Mr. 
John  sitting  by,  regarding  her  with  pathet- 
ic   tenderness.     I   knew    bcliire   the   third 
day  that  I  was  in  love  with  her,  desper- 
ately, di.-honestly  in  love  ;  but  I  was  detcr- 
nuned  that  neither  she  nor  Mr.  John  should 
suspect  it.     Almost  before  I  was  aware  of 
it,  Mr.  John    had   gained  my  confidence, 
and  I  had  told  him  of  all  my  past  struL'gles 
and  sorrows.     Sometimes  he  would  listen 
to  me  quietly  and  tearfully,  then  again  ho 
would  break  into  a  furious  tirade  against 
the  injustice  of  the  world  and  the  cruelty 
of  fate.     One   day,  when   I  had   finished 
telling  of  my  trials  in  Rome,  he  slapped 
me  heartily   on   the    shoulder,   and    said 
cheerfully,  though  there  was  an  undertone 
of  sadness  in  his  voice,  "  Never  mind,  ray 
boy  :  don't  think   any   nr>re  of  it.     Keep 
your  promise  to  me,  and  I  will  see  that  you 
sell  your  pictures.     I  lost  all  my  chance  in 
lile  when  I  was  your  age,  through  poverty. 
I  might  have  been  happy  i  but  I  tell  you 
I   lost  the  chance  then,  and,  by  Heaven  I 
it  was  a  wrong  that  nothing  else  can  com- 
pensate me  for."     Then  his  voice  choked, 
and  he  fairly  broke  down.    The  next  morn- 
iii"   he   n-avc    me    three   hundred   dollars, 
which,  he  said,  was  a  prei)ayinent  on  the 
portrait. 
1      I  think  I  had  been  there  ci^jht  or  ten 


114 


MR.   JOHN. 


asain. 


dav«,  an<l  niv  work  was  ^oinR  on   finely; 
v..t  I  was  not  sati^fR•.l  with  mysolf.     I'or 
ihe  fn'.t  thnc  in  ,ny  life-,  I  Ml  that  I  vvas 
reallv  dishonest,  that  I  was   stealm-   the 
treaMue  of  n.y  henoliu'tor  un.ler  h.s  very 
eyes;  Ibi-in  >,,itc -f  my  honor,  in  spite  ot 
n'y  resolve,  I  was  in  love  with  Kate,  an.l 
the  dear  ehil.l,  m"eh  to  my  astonishment, 
^v-as  beeomin^  too  ibn-l  of  me.     I  saw  U  ... 
eveiv  tender  ^lanee,  I  felt  it  in  every  inno- 
cent'wor.1.     1  was  a  sreat,  lank,  awkwanl 
fallow,  poor  and  unfortunate;  but  I  was  the 
onlv  .nan  she  had  ever  known  heside  Mr. 
■     John,andshefaneied  that  1  was  the  l.e.4,, 

and  the  handsomest  in  ll.c  world.  One 
luornin;;  wc  were  alone  for  a  few  moments  : 
Kate  was  more  lovely,  more  gentle,  than 
ever,  and  I  was  eonipletely  heside  myselt 
I  l,ad  oeeasion  to  ehan-e  the  position  ol 
iKT  hands;  and,  before  I  knew  what  1  was 

ahont,  1  pressed  them  to  my  hp-  ^^he 
drew  them  awav,  looked  at  me  a  little  snr- 
pvised,  then  sn.ldenly  threw  her  arms] 
round  u.y  neek,  and  burst  into  tears. 
There  was  a  po-ition  for  an  honorable  man. 
who  had  iiiven  his  word  to  bis  benefaetor. 
Ahnost  crushed  with  shame  and  remorse, 
1  held  her  to  my  heart  until  she  broke 
away  iiom  my  elasp,  and  rushed  from  the 

'Tr.  John  ean.c  in  peaceably.    "Where 
is  Kate  •!  "  he  said.     I  cowered  beneath  his 
glance.    AVhat  could  1  say  V   What  excuse 
could   I  make?     He  had  been  noble  and 
generous  to  me:  I  had  broken  ...y  prom. - 
and  betrayed  his  confidence,  and  1  lelt  akc 
a  criminal.      He   looked   at    me    gently, 
waitin,'  lor    my   an.wer.      I    could    not 
sneak  :  my  shame  made  me  dumb. 
^^Ah  1"  he  said  at  last,"  1  see  how  It .s." 

Then  I  threw  down  n.y  palette  and  l).-ushes, 
andtohlhimall.     "  >W  I  cried  "  I  .«- 
.ot     Ican'tstayheretoseehert     Hove 
ter:  I  can't  help  it ;  and  there's  nothm.^ 
...oretosay!     The  sooner  I  get  away,  the 

better ! "  ,  ^     -t  •> » 

"  And  without  finishing  the  portrait . 

said  Mr.  John  ruefully.  ,     .^ ..  i 

u  Yos  without  finishing  the  portrait,    J 

returned  decidedly.     "1  must  not  see  her 


a-au..       I  ha.l  never  forgotten  myself,  ...y 
dWlidence,  mv  awkwardness,  so  completely. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was  sure  ot 
,„vself.     1  knew  I  had  the  strength  to  go 
then;  but,  if  I  hesitated,  I  felt  that  I  was 

lost  '■  I  will  return  you  the  money  you 
paid  me,"  I  said,  picking  up  n.y  things 
rapidly;  "keep  what  there  is^  of  the  por- 
trait :  it's  better  than  nothing." 

Mr.  .Tohn  looked  at  me  pityingly.  "Its 
true  vou've  broken  your  promise;  but  per- 

'  1    .      •!• «rt  nrtiir        I  Inn  t 


haps'ifs  not  too  late  if  you  go  now.  Don  t 
sneak  of  returning  the  money  :  the  portrait, 
even  as  it  is,  is  worth  double  the  sum. 
Sen.l  mc  some  pictures,  and  I  will  pay  you 
la  good  price  lor  them.  Perhaps  you  11 
think  I'm  hard  :  may  be  1  am  :  but  I  cr.n  t 
lose  Kate;  she's  all  .ny  life.  You  cant 
love  her  half  as  well  as  I  do." 

I  had  a"there<l  up  n.y  thin-s  with  aburst- 
in.r  heart"  gave  my  han.l  to  Mr.  John,  and 
1  turned  toward  the  door.     1  had    been  in 
paradise  for   a  little   while;   now    I   was 
leaving  it  iorever.      As   I    stood   on    the 
thresh' n'    listening   to   Mr.   John's    "Im 
,orrv    •.       "■    ••  I"'"  sorry,"  the  door  was 
throV     '     '.  '-iolently,  and  Kate  burst  in 
with  fi...-c.i  taco  and  red  eyes.     Looking 
from   one  to  the  other,  and  noticing  Mr. 
John's  agitation,  ami  my  preparat.ons  for 
departure,  she    divined    th.    truth,   and 
crie.l  out  sharply.  "  Where  .are  you  going  . 
Then,  springing  at  Mv.  John  like  an  angry 
little  ti-er,  she  sei/.ed  him  by  the  arm,  and 
demanded  what  it  all  meant.     "  You  are 
sending  him  away  because  I  love  h.m    and 
you  think  ni  never  see  him  again  ;  but  1 
will !  I  will ! "   Then,  coming  to  my  side,  she 
put  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  said  gently, 
"  If  you  go,  I'll  go  too." 

That  was  more  than  Mr.  John  could 
bear.  He  trembled,  turned  deadly  pale, 
an<l  at  last  sobbed  out,  "  O  Kate,  Kate  1 
is  that  the  way  you  return  my  love  i  " 

In  a  moment  the  impulsive  girl  was  ^at 
his  side,  with  her  arms  roun.l  his  neck.  "  I 
love  you,  vou  know  I  love  you ;  but  I  love 
him  too,  and  you  want  to  sen.l  him  away. 
Let  him  stay  here,  and  I  can  love  you 
both." 


■»Tr- 


for^ottcn  mysflf,  my 
rihiL'ss,  so  compk'tt'ly. 
iiy  lite  I  w:is  suro  of 
,r  the  stron;^lh  to  go 
ited,  I  felt  that  1  was 
1  yoii  the  money  you 
)ickiiv4  up  n.y  things 
t  there  19  of  the  por- 
n  nothing'." 

at  me  pityingly.  "  It's 
'our  promise ;  hut  per- 

I  if  von  go  now.  Don't 
le  !noney  :  the  portrait, 
orth  double  the  sum. 
ires,  and  I  will  p:vy  you 
them.  PiThaps  you'll 
ly  he  1  am  :  but  I  cr.n't 

II  my  life.    You   can't 

11  as  i  do." 

p  my  thin'zs  with  a  burst- 
hand  to  Mr.  John,  and 
:  door.     1  h:id    been  in 
tie   while;   now    I   was 
As   I    stood   on   the 
T   to  Mr.   John's    "I'm 
'm  sorry,"  the  door  was 
mtly,  and  Kate  burst  in 
and  red  eyes.     Looking 
other,  and  notieing  Mr. 
and  my  preparations  for 
livined    the    truth,    and 
"Where  are  you  •^oin;!  ?  " 
,t  lilr.  John  like  an  angry 
ized  him  by  the  arm,  and 
it  all  meant.    "  You  are 
y  beeause  I  love  him  !  and 
rer  see  him  again  ;  but  I 
lien,  eoining  to  my  side,  she 
my  arm,  and  said  gently, 

ro  too." 

,re  than  Mr.  John   could 
bled,  turned   deadly  pale, 
hed  out,  "  O  Kate,  Kate  1 
you  return  my  love  ?  " 
the  impulsive  <?'•••  '■"^^  "* 
r  arms  round  his  neck.    "  I 
now  I  love  you ;  but  I  love 
,u  want  to  semi  him  away, 
here,  and  I  can   love  you 


MR.  JOHN. 


145 


«(jlWft-.4J(!M.'4^"-J5**^'" 


"  Child,  child,"  said  Mr.  John,  srently 
Btrokini;  her  hair,  "  you  don't  know  what 
you  ask  :  you  don't  know  how  hard  it  is  to 
give  you  to  another.  How  can  I  live  if  I 
lose  you  'I " 

"  You  won't  lose  me,"  she  said  earnestly ; 
"  that  is,  if  yon  will  let  us  both  stay  with 
you  and  love  you;  but  if  you  send  him 
away,  I  will  go  too,  —  remember  what  I  say, 
I  wi'u  go." 

I  stood  during  this  touching  conversation, 
silent,  embarrassed,  guilty,  yet  very  happy, 
because  the  dear  girl  loved  me,  and  had 
deilured  her  intention  to  go  with  me. 

At  last  Mr.  John  said  sadly  and  almost 
reluctantly,  "  Put  down  your  box,  boy,  and 
let's  talk  this  over.  Perhaps  we  can  ar- 
range it.  Go  away,  Kate :  when  we  have 
finished  talking,  I'll  call  you." 

"  You  won't  go  without  seeing  me  ;  prom- 
ise me,"  and  she  looked  me  imploringly  in 
the  face. 

"  I  promise  you,"  I  said,  pressing  my  lips 
to  her  Ibrehead  ;  then  she  went  away  and 
left  me  alone  with  Mr.  John. 

I  was  full  of  contrition  at  seeing  the 
good  man  in  such  trouble.  "  Forgive  me," 
I  said  with  a  broken  voice.  "It's  my 
fault,  I  know ;  but  I  never  meant  to  make 
trouble.  I  love  her :  she's  the  only  creature 
besides  mother  that  ever  loved  me.  I'm 
BO  poor  and  unfortunate,  such  a  miserable 
man  for  a  sweet  girl  like  her  to  love  1  I 
worship  her ;  but  don't  fret,  Mr.  John  :  even 
if  she  wants  to  go,  I  won't  take  her  away 
from  you.  No :  1  can't  marry  lier,  as  dearly 
as  I  love  her ;  I  can't  marry  her,  for  she 
would  starve  with  me.  No,  no,  I  never 
can  drag  her  down  to  my  misery." 

"But  you  won't  drag  her  down,  —  by 
Heaven  you  won't.  I've  money  enough 
for  all.  I'm  a  selfish  brute  to  stand  be- 
tween the  poor  girl  and  her  happiness. 
I've  sufTered  all  my  life  because  cursed 
poverty  stood  between  me  and  the  only 
■woman  I  ever  loveil.  I  did  a  great  wrong 
to  her  mother.  Now's  my  chance  to  atone 
for  it.  If  you  really  love  her,  and  she  loves 
you,  take  her ;  and  I  will  make  every  thing 
easy  for  you,  even  if  it  breaks  my  heart." 
10 


Before  I  knew  it,  I  was  on  my  knoes  cry- 
ing like  a  child,  while  I  thanked  Mr.  John 
between  my  sobs;  and  he  cried  too.  wring- 
ing my  hand  until  it  adied,  and  calling  me 
over  and  over  his  boy,  his  dear  boy. 

"  But  wait,  wait  a  little:  don't  go  crazy 
with  Joy  until  I  tell  you  all ;  for,  by  Heav- 
en !  I  won't  deceive  you  in  the  least ; 
but  remember,  you're  to  keep  it  from  her. 
She's  my  own  child,  and  I  never  was  mar- 
ried. Do  you  understand  ?  Iler  motluT 
was  the  sweetest,  the  truest.  O  my  (jod  I 
what  an  angel  she  was  I  but  she  was  a  poor, 
humble  girl ;  and  my  father,  a  [inrse-iproud 
old  Jew,  swore  that  he  would  disiidierit  mo 
if  I  married  her ;  and  I  was  a  coward,  a 
weak  coward,  and  afraid  to  make  her  my 
lawful  wife  in  the  face  of  it  all.  She  loved 
me,  poor  girl  I  she  gave  uj)  all  for  me  :  but 
shame  and  remorse  broke  her  heart ;  and 
she  died  when  Kate  was  born.  I've  never 
known  a  hap[)y  day  since.  If  she  had  lived 
to  share  the  fortune  that  my  father  left  mo 
a  few  years  after,  how  different  all  would 
have  been !  It  did  me  no  good  tlien  :  my 
heart  was  buried  in  her  grave.  I  hated 
the  world,  and  determined  to  leave  it  and 
devote  my  life  to  her  child.  I've  watched 
over  her  and  guarded  her  as  a  miser  does 
his  treasure.  I've  kept  her  away  from 
every  one,  because  I  wanted  all  her !  love  all 
her  life,  for  myself.  Good  God  I  how  her 
mother's  face  comes  before  me  to-day  I  No, 
no :  I  won't  make  her  unhappy.  I  believe 
you're  a  good,  honest  man,  and  she  loves 
you  :  that's  enough.  You  shall  have  her,  if 
it  breaks  my  heart." 

I  thanked  him  over  and  over,  and  assured 
him  that  it  never  would  break  his  heart, 
and.  that  Kate  would  love  him  iione  the 
less  because  she  loved  me  a  little. 

"But  you  don't  think  any  the  less  of 
the  girl  after  what  I've  told  you." 

[  assured  him  that  nothing  could  change 
my  love  for  her. 

"  Remember,  she's  never  to  know  it :  she 
must  think,  as  she  always  has,  that  she's 
only  an  adopted  child." 

I  promised  him  every  thing  he  asked 
with  the  happiest  heart  that  ever  beat  in 


i 


a 


1 . 


146 


MB.  JOHN. 


any  man's  breast.  Kate  was  deli-l.te( 
wl.on  Hh..  loavniMl  of  the  course  events  luvl 
taken;  and  I  believe  she  lovea  Mr.  John 

better  than  she  ever  had  before.  W ell,  we 
were  married  very  quietly,  an.l  my  wife  and 
I  remaine.1  with  Mr.  John  until  nearly 
Christmas.  Now  wc  have  come  to  Boston 
for  a  little  while.  It's  no  use  to  take  a 
house,  because  we  shall  pass  the  greater 
part  of  the  year  with  Mr.  John.  But  Kate 
Lists  that  I  shall  have  an  elegant  stmlio. 
So  I've  abandoned  my  little  hole  in  the 
temple  of  art,  and  have  taken  a  lar-e,  airy 

room    on Street,   No.-,   where    my 

former  works,  autumn  scenery  and  all,  are 
handsomely  framed,  and  hun?  in  the 
best  possible  li-ht ;  and  the  public  are 
respectfully  invited  to  call  an.l  see  them, 
at  any  hour  between  ten  and  three.    You 


know,  I  told  vou  that  I  only  had  to  succeed 
a  little  to  succeed  a  fjrcat  deal ;  and  now 
I've  proved  it,  tor  I've  already  several  or- 
ders from  studies  made  abroad  ;  and  yester- 
day the  very  .loctor  who  robbed  my  poor 
mother  bousht  a  picture    from    me,  ior 
which  he  paid  five  hundred  dollar.,     ^ot 
as    much   as   I    intended   to   get :  not  as 
much  as  I  will  get  in  the  future  ;  but  stil 
it's  not  a  bad  interest  on  ten   dollars.     1 
shall  double  the  amount  without  any  delay, 
and    buy   those  grave-stones,  which   have 
been  the  dearest  wish  of  my  life.     So  you 
see  that  my  iortune  is  in  a  fair  way  to  come 
to  me  at  last.    Not    from  having    been 
abroad  ;  not  from  painting  autumn  scenery ; 
not  even  from  my  profession:  but  through 
I  the  love  of  my  dear  Kate  and  good  Mr. 
I  John. 


Uj 


only  hail  to  succeed 
•i.ut  (Iciil ;  and  now 

already  several  or- 
abroail ;  and  yester- 
ho  robbed  my  poor 
:nre    I'roin    nie,  ibr 
ndred  dollars.     Not 
led  to  get :  not  as 
the  future  ;  but  still 
;  on  ten   dollars.     I 
it  without  any  delay, 
-stones,  which   have 
;  of  my  life.     So  you 
in  a  fair  way  to  come 
from  having    been 
iting  autnmn  scenery ; 
ifession:  but  through 

Kate  and  good  Mr. 


THE   DRINKERS    OF   ASHES. 

[translated  from  the  "revue  des  deux  mondes."] 


>•» 


INTRODUCTION. 

Ai-Tiioufsii  every  one  knows  that  Savo- 
narola, exconnnunicated  by  Poj)e  Alexander 
VI.,  was  burnt  at  Florence  the  23d  of 
Miv,  1498,  but  few  persons  are  auiu.unted 
with  the  strange  events  that  immediately 
Ibl  lowed  his  martyrdom. 

It  was  not  for  having  overthrown  the 
jiower  of  the  Medici,  and  in  its  stead  sub- 
stituted his  own  authority,  that  Fra  Giro- 
lomo,  so  dear  to  the  Florentines,  was  torn 
from  the  convent  of  San  Marco  where  he 
had  taken  refuge,  endured  torture,  and  at 
last  perished  by  the  flames  :  it  was  for  hav- 
ing shaken  the  all-iK)werful  of  the  Court  of 
Rome, —  ibr  having  declared  that  the  Borgia 
could  neither  be  considered  a  bishoj},  nor 
yet  a  Christian. 

In  spite  of  the  terrible  re-action  against 
the  poor  monk,  he  had  nevertheless,  until 
hJs  last  hours,  many  secret  disciples,  who  re- 
mained faithful  to  his  cause,  and  who  tried 
in   vain   to  save  him.    Those  who  were 
present  at  his  death  divined  his  thoughts 
when  he  cried  to  his  two  companions,  Uom- 
inico   da   Pesuhia,  and   Silvestro    Marussi, 
"  In  miinus  'uas  Dominie,  comendo  spiriium 
mmm  !  "    In  effect,  these  words  were  less  a 
prayer  addressed  to  God,  than  a  last  injunc- 
tion to  his  disciples,  to  continue  the  strug- 
gle, even  to  the  thres!     d  of  death,  against 
that    powerful  opponent,  who  triumphed 
over  his  enemies  only  by  torture  and  fire. 


The  Court  of  Rome,  fearing  that  they 
would  make  relics  of  the  remains  of  the 
martyr,  ordered  his  aslii-s  to  be  thrown 
into  the  Arno ;  but  the  people  broke 
throuifh  the  line  of  guards,  in  spite  of 
the  blows  of  their  pikes,  rushed  upon 
the  still  burning  remains,  and  carried  them 
away,  crying  that  they  had  murdered  a 
saint. 

Three  of  the   disciples   of   SavonaroLn, 
those  to  whom  his  last  words  were  addressed, 
took   possession  of  the  charred  head  and 
heart  of  their  master ;  and,  baffling  the  pur- 
suit of  the  guards  by  traversing  the  narrow 
lanes  of  Florence,  they  were  enabled,  with- 
out being  detected,  to  take  refuge   in  a 
ruined  hut  near  the  convent  of  Sant'  Ono- 
frio.     During  the   fray  one  of  them   was 
wounded  in  the  shoulder  by  the  blow  of  a 
halberd.     Once  in  security,  they  adored  the 
shapeless  remains  of  him  whom  they  had 
loved  so  much,  as  if  they  were  the  relics  of 
a  saint.     Then  followed  a  strange  scene : 
they  mixed  with  wine  some  of  the  martyr's 
ashes,  and  added  to  it  the  blood  of  the 
wounded  man  ;  then  all  three,  having  par- 
taken of  these  new  sacramental  elements, 
swore  to  avenge  their  master,  and  to  com- 
bat then  and  always,  until  they  had  effaced 
from  the  earth  the  power  of   the   sacred 
throne,  and  all  the  strength  that  flowed  from 
it.     Th(^y  swore  to  be  apostles  to  all  the 
world,  to  raise  up  enemies  against  Rome,  to 
be  ready  for  battle  in  the  light  of  day,  ia 
147 


MS«(Sli»!*J.i!'" 


i 
I 


i 


I 


148 


THE  DRINKEna  OF  ASHES. 


the  darkness  of  ni^'ht,  by  swonl  und  liy 
Bpeoch,  iinil  as  tliey  saiil  in  theiroaih,  "/»«/• 
/as,per  nefas.  In  ii  word,  all  was  pitimUlcmI 
fxcei)t  assassiiiaiion ;  for  it-  was  the  author- 
ity itself  they  would  overthrow,  instead  of 
its  ri'presentatlves. 

Thus  was  formed  a  secret  society,  that 
rai)i(lly  developed.  At  that  epoeh  reform 
■was  ill  the  air :  John  IIuss  was  dead,  leav- 
ing' numerous  disciples  ;  and  Luther,  alreaily 
born,  was  not  loi"^  in  raising  the  cry  of  re- 
volt. The  friends  of  Savonarola,  re-united 
as  understood  between  them,  (.Mthered 
around  those  who  had  communed  with  the 
remains  of  the  martyr ;  establishing  their 
ramillcations  indiscriminately  among  lay- 
men and  priests,  frequenting  the  courts  of 
Italian  princes,  fomenting  opposition  against 
the  monks;  and,  as  much  to  bewilder  the 
curious,  as  to  be  recognized  by  them  as  a 
common  rallying  word,  they  took  the  name 
Tt'/ihnijtotus,  composed  of  two  (Ireek 
words  which  signify  Drinkers  of  Ashes. 
Tliey  then  elected  seven  chiefs,  to  whom 
they  gave  the  names  of  the  first  seven 
Kings  of  Edoin,  predecessors  of  the  Kings 
of  Israel.  As  at  that  time  many  were  well 
versed  in  the,  lore  of  the  Cabala,  their  tradi- 
tions were  derived  from  the  Zuhar,  which 
no  one  will  ignore  as  its  universal  code. 

These  seven  chiefs  of  the  Drinkers  of 
Ashes  transmitted  their  names  to  their  suc- 
cessors in  such  a  manner  that  one  would 
almost  believe  the  founders  of  this  singular 
society  to  have  been  immortal.  During  a 
conspiracy  that  was  discovered  ic  Rome  in 
tlie  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
one  of  these  Tephrapoles  was  arrested: 
•when  interrogated,  he  replied  that  his  name 
was  Bela,  sou  of  Beer. 

"  Who    has    induced    you    to    conspire 
against  our  Holy  Father  the  Pope?  " 
"  Bela,  son  of  Beor." 
"  .Vhat  is  the  name  of  your  father  ?  " 
"  Bela,  son  of  Beor." 
"  And  your  grandfather  ?  " 
"  Bela,  son  of  Beor." 
"  llow  old  are  you  V  " 
"  Three  hundred  and  twelve  years." 
"  Do  you  try  to   persuade  us  that  you 


have  lived  always,  —  that  you  are  a  man 
who  has  existed  for  three  centuries?  " 

He  replied  simi)ly,  "  I  have." 

They  believed  hiin  insane,  and  that  saved 
his  life.  He  was  imprisoned  in  the  castlo 
of  Sant'  Angelo,  from  which  hu  escaped  by 
the  aid  of  other  Drinkers  of  Ashes,  who 
had  watched  over  him  in  secret. 

The  Roman  government,  so  well  instruct- 
eil  in  every  thing,  thanks  to  the  cijules- 


sional,  was  not  long  in  discovering  the  exist- 
ence of  a  society  inimic.ll  to  its  interests. 
At  first  It  was  little  troubled ;  but,  seeing 
the  number  of  its  adherents  increasing  rap- 
idly, an'l  believing  that  the  death  of  Savo- 
narola was  the  only  cause  of  their  hate,  it 
would  use  mildness,  withdraw  the  former 
(•ondemnatit)n,  and  at  least  rehabilitate  the 
martyr.  Paul  III.  declared  any  one  who 
attacked  his  memory  a  heretic;  Paul  IV. 
determined,  after  examination,  that  his 
writings  were  irreproachable ;  and  at  last 
Benoit  XIV.  no  longer  hesitated  to  rank 
him  among  the  .lercitnts  of  God  who  merited 
healificaliun.  Such  measures,  however,  were 
not  sufficient  to  disarm  the  men  who  de- 
sired, not  only  vengeance,  but  also  the 
entire  destruction  of  an  order  of  things  the 
most  complete  and  most  solid  that  had  ever 
existed. 

The   scene  of   action   of   the  Drinkers 
of  Ashes  was  not  confined  to  Italy.     They 
en>'aged  in  the  struggle  against  the  house  of 
Austria.    They  took  an  important  part  in 
the  Reformation,  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  the 
creation  of  the  kingdom  of  Prussia,  that, 
with  its  new  Protestant  power,  seemed  to 
demand  an  overthrow  of  the  old  edifice  of 
Ilapsbnrg.     During  the   French    Revolu- 
tion, one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  Drinkers  of 
Ashes  was  a  member  of  the  Convention :  he 
voted  the  death  of  Louis  XVI.,  held  impor- 
tant offices  under  Napoleon,  endeiivoring 
with  all  his  influence  to  overthrow  the  tem- 
poral power.     At  the  time  of  the  Restora- 
tion, the  Ttphrapotes,  who  contended  that 
kings  had  no  divine  right,  were  in  commu- 
nication with  the  French  Carbonari,  and, 
above  all,  with  the  various  retreats  of  the 
Dauphin.    Dispersed  in  other  times  over 


-ii 


*.}i^..i'^J\t  "k-':^.^^^^  Vi'»  ,.!' 


SYLVRUINK. 


149 


you  nro  a  man 
L-entiirics  ?  " 

ilVC." 

I',  and  that  saved 
ed  in  the  castle 
•h  hu  oscapetl  by 
8  of  Ashes,  ivho 
iccret. 

,  so  well  instruet- 
s  to  the  eijiilcs- 
i)verin<;  the  exist- 
I  to  its  interests, 
bled ;  but,  seeing 
s  inereasini;  ra[)- 
c  death  of  Savo- 
j  of  their  hate,  it 
draw  the  iornier 
t  rehabilitate  the 
ed  any  one  who 
jretic ;  Paul  IV. 
nation,  that  his 
l)le;  and  at  last 
iiesitated  to  rank 
'■  God  who  merlled 
•es,  however,  were 
the  men  who  de- 
ce,  but  also  the 
rder  of  things  the 
olid  that  had  ever 

of   the  Drinkers 
d  to  Italy.    They 
;ainst  the  house  of 
juportant  part  in 
ty  Years'  War,  the 
,  of  Prussia,  that, 
power,  seemed  to 
the  old  edifice  of 
French    Rcvolu- 
the  Drinkers  of 
le  Convention :  he 
XVI.,  held  impor- 
ilcon,  endeavoring 
)vert]irow  the  tem- 
iie  of  the  Ilestora- 
lio  contended  that 
t,  were  in  eommu- 
h  Carbonari,  and, 
)us  retreats  of  the 
.  other  times  over 


N  1  / 


Europe,  and  even  the  New  World,  the 
force  of  the  work  within  liirty  years  sfcined 
concentrated  upu.i  three  principal  points. 
— the  destruction  of  the  temporal  power,  the 
■overthrow  of  the  empiri;  of  Austria,  and 
the  annihilation  of  the  Turkish  empire  of 
the  Occident.  To  these  tende<l  all  the  elforts 
of  the  Tt'iihrripo/es.  God  alone  in  his  un- 
fathoniable  secrets  knows  to  what  destiny 
they  are  reserved. 

The  oath  of  1408  is  sworn  .to-day ;  but 
*  the  mystic  formula  of  the  compact,  im- 
printed with  the  confused  ideas  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ai^es,  has  expired,  and  it  can  find  no 
place  iiere.  It  is  enough  to  know  that  each 
Drinker  of  Ashes  is  i)ledged  never  to  risk 
his  life  but  ibr  the  work  to  which  he  is  j^iven, 
and  under  no  pretext  to  fail  to  obey ;  for, 
if  he  refuses  obeilience,  he  is  punished  by 
death.  In  short,  no  matter  what  power  is 
vested  in  one  member,  he  is  never  to  use  it 
to  arrive  more  surely  or  more  (piickly  to 
the  supreme  end,  unless  the  chiefs  and  the 
association  approve  of  it.  TIte  eldest  chief 
dwells  beyond  Jordan.  By  these  words  is 
understood  the  territory  of  the  power  with 
which  there  is  no  temptation  to  affiliate. 
The  six  others  reside  ordinarily  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  same  country,  ollen  living  two 
and  two  together,  or,  at  least,  not  far  fiom 
each  other,  so  that  they  may  be  able  to 
take  promptly  any  position  that  cu-cum- 
stances  demand. 

These  explanations,  which  I  have  given 
as  briefly  as  jiossible,  seem  necessary  for  the 
comi)rehen8iou  of  the  true  story  I  am  about 
to  relate. 


I. 

BfLVERINE. 


Between  the  end  of  the  Oriental  crisis 
in  1840,  and  the  first  Italian  commotion  of 
1847,  a  great  calm  seemed  to  reign  over 
the  world.  A  profound  silence  enveloped 
the  ordinary  political  conspirators:  kings 


]  seemed  to  sit  traiuiuilly  upon  their  thrones, 
I  and     niimarchs     the    must    ccmstitutional 
I  i)elieved    tlieniselvi's   al)sulute    soverei'.'US. 
During  that  period,  the  Drinkers  of  A>h('S 
seemed  to  have  vanished  entirely,  so  pro- 
found   was    their    silence.     The     supreme 
chief  residiiil    sometimes    in    Paris,   .some- 
times in  London.     His  six  associates  were 
scattered  over  Euroi>e,  —two  in  Italy,  two 
others  in  Austria,  and  the  two  last  lived 
sometimes  in  Serbia,   sometimes   in    Con- 
stantinople.    They  olK'u  held  secret  coun- 
cils between  them,  when  one  would  agitato 
some  new  (juesi ion;   for  the  initiative  was 
allowed    to   each   one,  especially   for    the 
si)hero  of  action  in  which  he  moved.     The 
society  re-united  usually  in  Switzerland,  a 
free    country,   undisturbed   in   circulation, 
and   bordering   on    the    scene    of  action. 
They   resembled   birds    of   passagi!,   who, 
guideil  by  their  instinct,  sometimes  arrive 
in  the  same  country  froui  all  four  corners 
of  the  world.     They  gave  the  fraternal  kiss 
to  those,  who,  without   personal  ambition, 
worked  for  a  common  good;  saluted  each 
other  as  in  the  time  of  Alexander  VI.,  "  /;» 
nomine     fratris     Hicronfimi ;"    discus»i»d 
eagerly  the  question  most  important,  dis- 
playing the  strongest  airection  in  and  confi- 
dence for  each  other;    parting,   not   only 
with  the  hope  of  ai)proaching  triumph,  hut 
armed  with  an  unshaken  faith,  and  a  per- 
sistent courage  in  spite  of  delay  and  defeat. 
At  that  epoch  one  of  the  chiefs,  who,  in 
his  order,  was  styled  Johab,  son  of  Zerdi, 
king  of  Edom  for  the  tribes  of  llomagna, 
lived  in  Ravenna,  the  centre  of  his  action 
in  the  Papal  Stales.     He  had  dissimulated 
so  cleverly,  and  had  concealed  his  opinions 
80  well,  that  he  was  left  to  live  tran(iuilly 
in  the  midst  of  the  serious   occupations 
that  seemed  to  fill  his  life.     He  was  very 
gentle,  very  affable,  and  not  proud.      I!o 
talked  voluntarily  with  the  fishermen  on 
the  coast ;  and  if  by  chance  he  had  needed 
a  boat  to  have  taken  him  even  to  Corfu,  I 
am  convinced,  so  well  was  he  liked,  that 
he  would  have  found  one  without  search- 
ing long.     He  was  called  Flavio  Masterna, 
I  and  belonged  to  a  very  old  Tuscan  family. 


T 


150 


THK  DKINKEBS  OF  ASHES. 


Conipliiisiint    <;t'm'alo,'Hl^    fvi'ii    triwl    to 
trivet'  it,  l)ii(k  to  llu"    Ktriixi'an   Masturnii, 
who  rci'jiicil  in   Uoium  uiiiUt  tli(!  iiiinic  of 
S(!rviiis   TiiUiiis.     Flavio  was  tlu;  fivft   to 
liiiijjh  at  the  iihi!<trioiis  origin  they  would 
thrust  upon  hiui.     He  was  a  count  or  a 
inar(|uis,   I   know  not  which ;    l)ut  hi;  had 
neviT  taken  any  title,  believin;,'  that  siieh 
puerilities  appertain  liy  rij^ht  to  those  who 
are  lijreed  to  rtttrace  the  course  of  time  to 
Uiseover  a  merit,  or  to  seareli  a  distinetion 
anionj;  the  generations  that  arc  for;i0tten. 
He   remained,   then,   particularly  simiile; 
intelligently  attached  to  the  work  that  re;;- 
ulated  his  iilb ;  beloved  by  those  who  sur- 
rounded him.  devoted,  ready,  and  anxious 
to  please  him  ;  and  that  sidlieed  him.     lie 
lived  beyond  the   city,  on   the   border  of 
the  celebrated  forest  of  pines,  in  a  small, 
isolated  house,  covered  with  verdure,  and 
filled  with  books.     He  seemed  to  pass  his 
life  ill  a  very  simple  fashion,  between  read- 
in;4  and  the  few  friends  who  visited  him. 
At    least    outwardly,   there    was    nothing 
stran'.'e  in  liis  life.     Ho  accomplished  reg- 
nlarly,  but  without  excess  of  zeal,  the  re- 
li'j;ious  duties  imposed  in  the  States  of  the 
Church ;  <;ave  voluntary  alms ;  never  spoke 
of  poUtics ;   was  friendly  with  the  officers 
who  commande<l  and  tlie  soldiers  who  held 
the  -garrison  in   tlie   city  ;   but  was   never 
Been  in  the  cafeii,  knowing  well  that  they 
are  the  refuge  of  idleness  and  fanaticism. 
Soni'itimes  he  took  long,  solitary  walks, 
Ibllowed  by  a  great  dog,  alert  and  watch- 
ful, that  was  usually  seen  lying  in  the  sun 
on  the  door-stone  of  the  house.      Sailors 
returning  late  from  fishing  had  sometimes 
encountered  him  on  the  shore,  sitting  upon 
an  upturned  boat,  as  though  hu  waited  for 
some  one ;   but  they  had  not  paid  much 
attention  to  him,  merely  remarking,  "  Oh, 
he  is  an  original  1 "    In  spite  of  his  extreme 
sweetness ;  in  spite  of  his  caressing  man- 
ners, peeidiar  to  the  men  of  the   Tuscan 
race ;  in  spite  of  the  dreamy  sadness  that 
floated  in  his  dark  eyes.— when  one  regarded  j 
attentively  his  tall  figure,  already  a  little  | 
bent,  his  vigorous  thinness,  his  olive  tint,  [ 
the  energetic  arch  of  his  brows,  his  large,  j 


.  full  forehead,  that  a   premature  balducsB 
made  more  striking,  one  li'lt  in  seeing  the 
'  gravity  that  predominated  in  the  expres- 
si(m  of  this  man  of  thirty-five  years,  that 
iu  him  was  something  implacable  and  ab- 
■  struse,  —  an  interior  life  hidden  from  al'.of 
'  which    he    alone    possessed    the    secret. 
"  Bah  1"  said  they,  not icin'_'  how  grave  he 
was,  ''he  thinks  of  some  old  love  sorrow." 
|{ut  they  were  mistaken  :  he  lived  in  the 
dilfiuulties   of  his   double   existence,   con- 
tbrming  to  the  device,  in  the  ba<l  f.aiiu  of 
the  Middle  Age.  betpiealhed  to  him  by  his 
ancestors:    '^  Alque   wile  itawm,  juslillh" 
(Kvcn  belbre  bread,  justice.)     He  had  no 
family;   his  father  had  died  in  exile;   his 
brother  had  been  shot  at  Jlodeua  in  the 
course    of   a    fruitless     insurrection ;     his 
mother  he  hardly  knew  ;  when  he  thought 
of  her,  he   remeuibered  vau'Uely   a   large, 
thin  woman,  who,  each  evening  at  her  de- 
votions, mingled  prayers  lor  the  carbonari 
with  imprecations  against  those  she  called 
princes  of  the  cursed  alliance.     Being  ar- 
rested  at   Milan    fa-   having   insulte.l    an 
Austrian   ollicer,    when   interrogated,    she 
declined  to  give  her  name  and  title ;  then 
added,  Schiaua !  (slave).    The  police  under 
this    foreign  government  not  being  merci- 
ful, the  Marchesa  Masterna,  of  the  dukes 
of  Montcspertoli,  was  treated  as  a  woman 
of   abandoned   life.      She   became    insane 
from  humiliation,  and  died  soon  alter  in  a 
mad-house. 

Flavio  was  then  alone,  without  any  of 
those  natural  ties  which  retain  a  man 
within  the  circle  of  his  own  family.  His 
need  of  affection  was  nevertheless  impe- 
rious; and  he  had  concentrated  all  ujwn 
two  persons,  who  formed  what  he  called, 
smiling  to  himself,  his  sentimental  hori/on. 
One  of  these  persons  lived  not  far  from 
him,  in  a  modest  liouse,  hidden  among  the 
pines  that  separate  Ravenna  from  the  sea. 
II<'r  name  was  Sylverine,  and  she  was 
very  beautiful.  She  was  a  woman  of 
about  thirty,  and  had  been  connected  with 
Flavio  for  somj  years.  Her  origin  seemed 
doubtful:  some  s|)oke  vaguely  of  a  hus- 
band abandoned  in  a  strange  country,  of 


u 


r 


mnttiro  baliliicgii 
•It  ill  »criii'4  the 
1  ill  ihi(  I'xpri's- 
•fivi.'  yeiirs,  that 
|)liu'!il)lii  iiml  ab- 
lidi'ii  iVoiu  ill',  of 
•(I'd     tlie     ^'la•l•et. 
)'_'  how  (jravc  he 
jlil  love  sori'ow." 
ho  livfil  ill  the 
cxisteiU'f,   t-'cm- 
llie  hail   Laliii  of 
lod  to  him  liy  hin 
/xinem,  Jitsiill'a  " 
ii'i'.)     He  liad  no 
ied  in  exile;   his 
t  Modeiia  in  tho 
iisurrcction ;     his 
when  he  thoujjht 
va'jTUcly   a  lar'»e, 
treiiiii'4  at  her  do- 
lor the  carhonari 
:  those  Am  called 
iance.     Beiiij^  ar- 
vin<^   insfulte.l    an 
interro;4ated,    she 
e  and  title ;  then 
The  police  under 
not  beiii;4  merci- 
jrna,  of  the  dukes 
iated  as  u  woman 
e   became    insane 
id  soon  after  in  a 

e,  without  any  of 
.h  retain    a    man 

own  family.  Ilis 
levcrtheless  impe- 
lentrated  all  nixin 
d  what  he  called, 
ntiinental  hori/on. 
lived  not  far  from 
hidden  among  the 
;nna  from  the  sea. 
ine,  and  she  was 
was  a  Woman  of 
en  connected  with 

Her  origin  seemed 
vaguely  of  a  hus- 
trange  country,  of 


RYLVKIUNE. 


161 


fliglit.  of  alidiiction  ;  but  romance,  without 
doubt,  coii^'lituled  a   ^rcat  part   of  tlie'<e  , 
vuiiiors.     Sonic  time  before,  she  had  come  , 
to  Uaveiina,  under  the  jiretext  of  taking  i 
sea-baths.     'Hie  country  scciiu^d  to  |)lea!<c  \ 
ber:  she  had  hired  a  Iiouko,  and   installed  j 
herndf  with  two  old  domestics,  who  com-  i 
posed   her  whole   family.       She    received 
Flavio  tamiliarly  every  day,  and   seldom 
made  visits  in  the  city.     That  was  all  aliy 
one  knew  ;  but  tliey  were  not  slow  in  re- 
marking that  lier  absences  otlen  coincided 
with  those  of  Flavio,  and  they  were  very 
quick  to  divine  that  there  existed  between 
these  two  persons  more  than   the   siiiiiile 
relations    of    i'riendship.       Without    any 
doubt  they  loved  one  another ;    but  there 
was,  in  tlieir  respective  allections,  diifereiit 
essentials,  of  which  it  is  well  to  take  notice. 
Wounded  by  the  deception  of  life,  hav- 
ing  crossed  the  fire  and  water  of  events, 
associated  from  childhood  with  the  various 
eoni[)lications  of  a  political  career,  Flavio 
lacked  that  outward  tenderness  of  sentiment 
so  agreeable  to  women,  yet  whicli  so  often 
hides  the  emptiness  of  the  heart.     He  was 
a  man  solid  in  the  lull  acceptation  of  the 
word,  and  lie  found  no  need  to  repeat  what 
he  felt  each  day.     He    loved    Sylverine, 
it  is    trui!,  with   a  love    unutterable  and 
devoted  ;  and,  owing  to  the  excessive  matu- 
rity of  his  nature,  he  seemed  also  like  a 
father  to  her. 

"  I  ask  but  one  thing,"  he  said  once  to 
Sylverine.  "  Never  tell  me  a  falsehood  : 
never  deceive  me.  I  am  always  strong 
enough  to  liear  the  truth." 

"  Bah  !  "  she  replied,  laughing.  "  You 
speak  like  an  old  tutor."  In  effect,  slie 
considered  him  a  little  as  such,  but  she  loved 
him  none  the  less.  She  was  intelligent,  and 
understood  with  what  a  superior  soul  she 
had  to  deal.  She  wept  over  the  dangers 
and  trials  of  a  Hie  of  which  she  alone  knew 
the  secret.  She  understocl  his  most  hidden 
thoughts,  when  he  recounted  to  her  his 
hopes  and  fears  ;  and  even  once  in  Sicily  she 
was  associated  with  his  perils  during  an 
insurrection  which  was  quickly  suppressed. 
She  crossed   with  him  mountains  on  foot 


wiihoiit  complaining,  forgot  the  fecbleneis 
of  her  sex,  slept  oil  the  bare  earth,  or  took 
refuge    in    the  huts   of  the  half-famished 
herdsmen,  playing  tho  riVr  of  heroine  with 
a  simplicity  that  was  the  a^liniration  of  all 
who  saw  lier.     Hut  inasmu;  i  as  she  was 
invincible  and  resolute  in  the  face  of  peril, 
in  herself  she  was  wavering  and  uncertain  : 
she  had  strau.'e  imaginations,  reveries  with- 
out   end,    inexiilicalile    abandcmments    to 
tears.    She  was  not  a  virago,  as  one  ini>;ht 
think  after  such  adventures,  but  a  woman 
sulVering  i'rom    all  feminine  weaknesses,  to 
which  she  succumbed  without  courage.     In 
the  secret  of  her  heart,  she  knew  she  was  de- 
voured with  a  need  of  tenderness  that  noth- 
ing couhl  satisfy.     The  emotion,  whatever 
it  was,  had  for  her  a  power  that  she  knew 
not  how  to  conquer.    She  was  all  expansion, 
all  enthusiasm.     The  cold,  sure,  and  severe 
Flavio  was  not  the  man  to  entirely  satisfy 
the  cravinus  of  such  a  nature.     Sometimes, 
in  default  of  the  love  which  she  would  have, 
she  played  at  the  comedy  ot  love.     Throw- 
ing herself  in  the  arms  of  Flavio,  and  leaning 
her  head  upon  his  breast,  she  would  remain 
tor  a  long  time,  recounting  to  herself  an 
imaginary  romance  in  which  she  and  Flavio 
played  the  first  role.     But,  when  she  raised 
her  eyes,  she  could  understand  by  his  fiAcd 
and  absent  regard  that  he  was  plunged  in 
far-off    speculations   that    engrossed    his 
spirits  entirely.     Often   she    would    hurst 
into  laughter,  and  say,  "  What   a  menage 
we  make,  my  Flavio  I  I  sing,  and  you  calcu- 
late :  I  am  a  romance  married  to  a  theorem." 
Then,  seeing  him  Siuldened  by  these  remarks, 
she  would  throw  herself  on  his  neck,  and  cry, 
"  My  Flavio,  knowest  thou  not  that  I  jest  ? 
I  am  a  poor  fool,  that  thou  art  too  good  to 
love." 

In  saying  this  she  was  sincere  ;  for  when 
she  accused  lierself  she  spoke  but  the  truth  ; 
knowing  she  was  capable  of  "any  rash  act, 
she  distrusted  her  own  heart.  In  fact,  she 
was  an  Italian,  and  had  light  ideas  of 
women's  virtue,  and  estimated  still  less  that 
of  men. 

A  celebrated  Italian    monk    came    to 
I  Ravenna  to  preach  during  Lent.     He  tbun- 


ii 


I 


152 


THK   DUINKKKS  OF   A8IIE8. 


d.rcil  nnfilnKt  woiih'M.  —  pmIIoiI  llicin  clmi'^h- 1  'viml'l  cay,  "  Lfuvf  iiic  niolu' :  I  am  ncrt-r 
tfin  (if  Satan,  vt-»i'l!<  ol'  iiiii|uiiy;   riirKcil  •  inihtiikoii." 

the  llfnh  ivml  its  cins ;  <in'il  tliti  Siriptiiri-H  ;        At  lunt  oik-  uvi'iiin>:.  wlicii  Flavio  wan  nt 
anil,  ill  chort,  <>|M'iu'il  to  tlicm  lM)tl»  »i<k'J«  of' tlic  lioiici-  of  Sylvi'iini',  lln'y  huard  Htcpn 


the  iloors  of  hell. 

"  What  an  iiifnifliTiihlL-  piMhint !  "  »niil 
Sylvt'r'nui  to  Flavio. 

"  IVrhaiw  he  li  convini'eil,"  roplii'il 
Flavio. 

.Sylvciine  fihni;;;:»'il   her   Hhonl'U^rc,  but 


ra|(iilly  mounting;  llu-  ctiiir-i,  th(^  lioor 
oprtifi!  wilh  a  '^rcal  noise,  and  riiovaii  threw 
hiniNeh'  into  th(^  arms  of  liis  friend.  He 
tool*  tlie  hand  of  Sylverine  fraterTialiy,  rntl 
tlieii  l)e.;an  to  opejilt  with  a  voliihility  that 
i)on'  little  rettMuliltiiue  to  the  hal)itual  ealui 


made  no  reply.    Alh-r  that,  she  was  so  kiml    of  Flavio, 


to  th(!  ]toor  monk  that  he  eoinpletely  lost  iiis 
senses:  one  ilay,  fallin<^  on  the  lloor  at  her 
li'et,  and  embracin;,'  them  in  his  eoarse  robe, 
he  deelanMl  that  lie.  atlored  her.  "  Pnilrc, 
padre,"  said  she,  laui^hinj;,  "  yon  must  not 
be  no  severe  on  the  ptK)r  women."  And  lie 
never  wasn'^ain. 

It  was  then  near  to  her  in  reality  that 
Flavio  passed  his  life.     She  listened  to  him, 
loveil  him,  ealmed  liim,  looked  with  resi;.'- 
nation  on  the  terrible  eventualities  that  sur- 
rounded his  life,  and  was  resolved  to  tiillow 
him  wherever  he    went.     He  ofk-n    spoke 
to  her  o.'  (iiovan  Seo^jlia,  who,  with   her, 
shared   all   his   alFt'eiions.      Tliis    Uiovan 
Seo^ilia,  also  Drinker  of  Ashes,  and  Kin^ 
of  Edom  tor  the  Neapolitan  tribe?,  under 
the   name  of  Balhenane   son   of  Aehl)or, 
had  ibr   a    lon;j;   time    inhabited  Naples, 
from   whieh  plaee   ho   had   been     oblij^cid 
to   rtee,  followed    by    a    too    clairvoyant 
poliee.     At  that  time  he  had  been  all  over 
Europe,  visitin;:;  the  faithful,  and  strength- 
onini;     everywhere     the    eonls      that  de- 
feat  had    weakened.     When  his  journey 
terminated,  he  was  to  come  to  llavenna  and 
nettle  near  Flavio,  who  felt  Ibrhiin  a  friend- 
ship so  tender  that  it  was  almost  a  weak- 
ness.    Flavio  rejoiced  at  the   approaching 
arrival  of  his  friend ;  and  Sylverine,  who  had 
heard  so  much  of  liiin,  awaited  him  with 
impatience.    "  When  Giovan  comes,"  was 
a  sacramental  [)hrase  of  the     lovers :   all 
seemed    suspended    until   that    arrival   so 
aiuiously  expected.    Sylverine  had  never 
seen  him  ;  but  she  imagined  how  he  would 
look,  pretendinjito  know  him  much  better 
than  Flavio.     Sometimes,  when  he  would 
correct    her  nii^taketi  on  the  subject,  she 


Sylverine  regarded  the  new-comer;  Im 
was  not  at  all  what  she  <'xp('t'ted.  Inste.'td 
of  the  man,  absorbed,  sc^rious,  and  uvon  a 
little  sullen,  that  she  had  ima|.;ined,  she 
saw  a  yoim'^  man  of  nlmut  twenty-five, 
blomle,  sli',dit,  but  of  an  elegant  fi'.:ure, 
showiu'i  with  coinplaceney  hands  womanly 
white;  while  on  his  lips,  a  little  too  red, 
was  an  expression  of  seornlul  ]iride,  that 
seemed  to  contradict  the  extreme  sweetness 
of  liis  blue  eyes.  His  manner  toward 
Flavio  was  that  of  a  s])oil(Ml  child,  —  a  sort 
of  timid  respect  mixed  with  a  wheedliiii; 
resistance.  Then!  was  in  him  an  exuber- 
ance of  life  that  escaped  in  s))ite  of  his 
eflurts  to  repress  it,  while  he  heaped  ipies- 
tion  upon  ipiestion. 

"What  do  you  do  liere  ?  Are  there 
any  amusements  ?  Have  you  any  horses  V 
Is  there  n  theatre  ?  Are  the  women 
pretty  ?  Where  do  you  go  in  the  evening  ? 
Can  one  hunt  about  here  ?  " 

Sylverine  listeneiJ  a  little  confused  to  the 
flood  of  words.  "  At  least,  he  is  full  of 
life,"  she  thought. 

Flavio  himself  seemed  disconcerted  by 
so  much  non.sense.  "  It  is  T,  nevertheless, 
who  have  raised  such  a  rattle-brain, "said  he. 

"  You  have  an  astonished  air,"  said  Syl- 
verine, "like  a  hen  who  has  hatched  a 
duck." 

They  did  not  separate  until  late  in  the 
night,  for  they  had  much  to  recount. 

"  How  do  you  like  him  ?  "  said  Flavio  to 
Sylverine. 

"  He  is  charming,"   she  replied. 

Ho  put  the  same  question  to  Giovan, 
respecting  Sylverine.  "  I  don't  know,"  he 
said :  '*  I  have  scarcely  looked  at  her." 


I 


on«> :  I  am  m^rer 
rn  Flavio  w;in  at 

lll'y    lu'ill'll     Htl'pH 

iiiiii'",    tlio   iloor 

iiiil  (fidvaii  threw 

Ills  trii'iul.     IIu 

rratcniiilly,  mil 

a  viiliihilitv  that 

till-  Imliitual  calm 

iu'w-comor :  ho 

iM'ti'd.     Inittend 

iitiH,  ami  (;vt>n  a 

il    iiiia;{inoil,   tiliu 

iKiiit   twi!iity-fivo, 

1   I'lc'^ant   fi','iiru, 

y  liaiiils  voiimiily 

il  little  too  roil, 

oriiliil  priili',  that 

?xtr<'nu?  sweetness 

niaiiner   towaril 

li'il  child,  —  a  sort 

iviili    a  wheeijliiii^ 

I  him  mi  exiilicr- 

'd  ill  spite  of  hid 

i  liti  heaped  (jiios- 

here?  Are  there 
J  you  any  horses  ? 
Are  the  women 
ro  in  the  eveiiin;^  ? 
'!  " 

tie  confused  to  the 
last,  he  is  lull  of 

1  disconcerted  by 
is  I,  nevertheless, 
;tle-brain,"8aid  he. 
led  air,"  said  Syl- 

0  has  hatched   a 

until  late  in  the 

to  recount. 

?  "  said  Flavio  to 

a  replied. 

estion   to  Giovan, 

1  don't  know,"  he 
loked  at  her." 


8YLVKUINE. 


153 


He  lied,  for  II.'  had  n>j;nriU'd  her  with 
much  niM'iitiiin ;  hut  he  liinl  the  singular 
(.'ift  thai  leloli;^'*  to  the  doiihle  nature  of  the 
Italian  and  conspirator,  tu  asioiii:<h  people 
hy  a  (low  of  wonis,  by  precipitate  u.'ive- 
ment^,  Ity  an  appearance  of  Itliisteriii^' 
frankness,  that  ilcccived  the  host  advised ; 
while  he  tiillowed  iin|)erluiiialily  the  iln'cad 
of  his  secret  thou;;hts,  and  ohserveil  with  a 
marvellous  perspicuity  all  that  [lassed 
nroiiiid  him.  He  had  often  put  that  science 
to  the  service  of  his  own  jiassions  ;  tor  he 
fiutVered  the  tyrnnny  of  a  (lery  impetu- 
osity. 

'•  I  have  tempests  in  me,"  he  often  said. 
At  times  Im  fci'.;ned  violence,  and  his  vio- 
lence served  his  dissiinnlation.  lie  turned 
nway  suspicion  iiy  force  of  iiliandon,  hy 
vivacity  ami  l)oyi:<hnes;<,  as  I'Mavio  did  by 
reserve  and  di;,'nily.  While  talkin;.^  freely 
to  Flavio.  he  watched  Sylverine.  In  the 
pure  lilies  of  her  lieautiful  face,  in  the 
veiled  glances  of  her  lar;^e  eyes,  of  a  blue 
so  deep  as  to  appear  black,  in  the  sparkliiii.; 
liiuiih  that  >howed  her  whit*!  ti'cfli,  he 
fancied  hi;  detected  somethiii;.;  of  weari- 
ness and  inditl'crence,  that  indicated  a 
native  weakness ;  and  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  say  to  Fl.ivio  afterwards,  "  I  will  bet  my 
ca))  a<rainst  n  carilinal's  hat,  that  you,  with 
your  Fententions  and  (loji;matie  love,  weary 
her  enough  to  make  her  weep." 

In  that  he  was  mistaken.  Sylverine  sut- 
fered,  it  is  true ;  but  it  was  because  she  be- 
lieved she  was  not  loved  enough. 

As  to  Flavio,  he  needed  nothing  :  he  lived 
in  the  plenitude  of  happiness,  with  the  two 
beings  he  loved  best  in  the  world.  He 
listened  to  their  conversation  with  pleas- 
ure, laughed  at  their  follies,  and  sometimes 
softened  almost  to  tears  on  seeing  them  so 
hapjiy  together.  They  scarcely  parted 
during  the  day ;  they  read  or  walked  under 
the  shadows  of  the  pines ;  and  their  even- 
ings were  spent  with  Flavio,  who,  olU-n  lost 
in  his  own  thoughts,  left  them  to  a  tele-a-ti^r. 
They  did  not  intend  to  abuse  his  confi- 
dence, certainly  not  ;  but  their  conversa- 
tion became  more  intimate,  and  glided 
gradually  down  the  declivity  of  confidence 


from  which  it  is  imponsible  to  reiiirii  as 
intact  as  one  has  ileM'einleil. 

Xeiiher  .Sylverine    nor  (iiovan     coldly 

conceived   the    thought    to   ih ive    Flavio, 

The  iiliM  gave  birth  to  itself.  It  was  the 
result  of  their  meeting,  their  const.int  coiih 
paiiionship,  their  youth,  in  fact,  a  thousand 
circiinistanccs  against  wliich  only  those 
could  striig'.'le  who  were  cold,  selt-con- 
tained,  and  invincibly  armed  with  virtue. 
They  did  not  go  toward  the  limit,  if  I  may 
so  speak  :  the  fault  came  to  tlnin.  They 
Were  young  and  congenial  to  each  other; 
and,  having  no  solid  Ibiiiidation  on  whicii 
to  stay  their  resistance,  they  gradually 
drifted  toward  the  sad  result. 

Very  often  Sylverine,  looking  at  Gioraii 
and  Flavio,  and  compariiit;  their  diverse 
characters,  would  think  witli  an  iiiex|iressi- 
hie  Jiaiig,  •'  My  (iod  I  these  poor,  dear  beads 
will,  jierhaps,  fiill  on  an  obscure  scallbld. 
I  will  keep  them  with  me,  and  hide  them 
from  all  danger;  or  I  will  accompany  them 
in  their  enterprise,  share  their  p(!rils,  and 
die  in  their  anus." 

Had  (iiovan,  then,  taken  such  a  place  in 
her  heart?  It  seems  so.  In  any  case,  she 
was  the  most  clear-sighted,  and  the  first  to 
feel  that  the  situation  was  becomiiig  dan- 
gerous. She  was  very  severe  with  herself 
in  the  calm  of  her  reflections,  making  no 
cowardly  excuses.  "  Wilt  thou,  then,  leave 
thyself  to  bi;  bewitched  with  Giovan?"  she 
wouhl-say.  "  Wiltthoudeceive  Flavio?  "  It 
was  not  because  she  believed  it  to  be  a  sin,  — 
1  have  said  that  abstract  virtue  had  no  great 
hold  upon  her  mind  ;  but  she  feared  to  dis- 
tress the  man  whom  she  loved  .so  much,  who 
had  for  her  an  extreme  aftection,  and  who 
had  treated  her  so  long  wi'th  the  greatest 
kindness.  In  any  other  circumstances,  she 
would  not  have  hesitated  to  have  given  her 
hand  to  (iiovan,  and  said,  "  I  love  you  ;  " 
but,  arrested  by  the  thought  of  the  good 
Flavio.  she  dared  not  advance  a  step  on 
the  way  that  attracted  her  to  the  new-comer. 
'•  We  can,  perhaps,  save  ourselves,"  she 
said,  but  without  much  conviction  ;  for 
she  could  not  count  upon  herself  to  accom- 
plish guch  a  miracle. 


fT 


154 


TFTR  imiNKERfl  «>P  ASFfKH. 


On  Iii«  "iiK'.  riio\,ui  wim  no  hm^ji-r  trim* 
<|i)il.  Till'  I'niii  that  liiiii'."*  on  it  ti  rbiilili-n 
Iri'i*  iill'ct'x  II  r>iii'jill.'ir  iiltriuMioii  In  riTtiill) 
iiiiiiiri's.  Ui'<«i|iiii',  |iriiiii|,  mill  iicrnUtfiit, 
III-  liml  i|iiii'kly  I'ljiiiiii'ii  till!  oii!itiU'lu!t  tliiit 
Hi'|iui'<iii'i|  liim  Iriiiii  HvlvrrliKV,  lint  llicxi- 
tili.'ttai'li'n  ii'iiialcil,  r:illii'i'  lliaii  riHili'ij,  liji 
piMNJiii.  KiMiinrHi-  lillc'il  liiH  heart,  wla-n  liu 
tlion.'ht  ut'  liin  frii'inl;  ami  iu;  trit-il  to  rv 
uiii<iiri' liiiifi'ir  wiili  wi':ik  iii%;uiii''iil<i ;  oHi-ti 
Kiiyin'^,  wlii'ii  ill-  fiiw  liiitv  culin  w:ih  the  iit- 
luctiim  tliiil  Flavin  ilMplaycil  tiir  Hylverlno, 
"  Hah  t  it  ii  imt  Invi',  it  i"  only  lialiit." 
Iti-a^iiiiu'.'  loiili>h  anil  wick' il,  tliiit  lu> 
(U>H|iii<ci|  hiinKt'lt'  Cor  cviT  toii-riii  iii'^.  What 
woiiM  \u\  liavo  ?  He  wan  not  contcntcil 
with  liiin-ii'll'.  ilis  coiiscicni'i!  was  not  at 
ruHt ;  Miini'tiiin'4  wiiliin  him  ('oiii|ilaintMl 
iiiL'(':<i<ani!y,  that  hi*  rmilil  not  <|Mii't :  that 
iiili'rior  voiri'  was  heanl  ahovi-  all  the  noisii' 
of  the  worlil ;  it  raticiii'ii  him  with  itn  jicr- 
Histi'ni'y,  yt't  gave  him  no  (^trcni^th  to  make 
a  jtimmI  iuhI  tlelinitc  ri'!«olntion.  "Alter 
III!,"  he  saiil,  ■'  I  love  her:  ami  it  is  not  my 
limit."  He  lieeaine  sail ;  aiKJ  to  llie  exeess  of 
gayety  that  during  the  first  diiys  disturbed 
the  serious  lite  of  Flavio,  siieieeiled  a  sort 
of  irritation,  the  uaiitic  of  wliieh  he  would 
not  avow. 

"  Al'ter  such  a  life  of  exeitement,"  thouj^ht 
Flavio,  "  he  fiiiils  it  dilliriiil  to  nceustoui 
himself  to  our  too  peaeealilo  existence." 

He  could  not  deceive  Sylveiine,  who  felt 
that  a  crisis  !i|iproaelie(l ;  yet  she  had  re- 
wilved  notliinj^  within  herself;  she  regarded 
Flavio  with  sudnesH,  and  Giovan  with  uax- 
iety. 

It  was  on  the  shore  of  the  sea  that  the 
important  words  escaped  their  lips.  They 
had  gone  out  together,  and  crossed  the  for- 
est of  pines,  where  forever  moans  the 
monotonous  breeze  that  resembles  the  con- 
fused and  perpetual  'plaining  of  sorrow. 
Walking  side  by  side,  they  had  reached  the 
sandy  shore  of  the  Adriatic.  ISotli  wure  si- 
lent. Giovan,  uneasy,  and  irritated  by  his 
interior  struggle,  never  raised  his  eyes  to 
Sylveriiie,  whose  affected  calm  betrayed  her 
inr{uietude.  They  sat  down  under  tuo 
shadow  of  u  iishermun's  hut,  and  looked  out 


I  on  lite  tnini|iiil  iiuii,  whoMt  an-vn  pl.mc 
Heenieil  to  reach  the  horixon.  (iiovnn 
drew  to_'elher  with  his  cane  sonic  •.lidU 
and  dried  sea-weed;  .Sylverine  mechani- 
cally  traced  undeciileil  lines  in  the  mo\  in^ 
sand.  In  u  moment,  as  if  he  had  taken  a 
Hiidden  resoliiiion,  (iiovaii  said  to  iier, 
"Can   you    write   on   the   sand    where    the 

i  waves  will  ellaeu  it,  tint  name  of  him  you 

'  love  ?  " 

"  Of  what   giMid  to  write,  if  the  waven 

I  must  efface  it?  "  replied  Sylverine.     "  .Viid 

I  yoii,"  added  she,  looking  at  him  lixcilly^ 
"  will    you    write   the    name    of    her    you 

I  love  V  " 

lie  arose  from  his  seat  with  iin|ietuosity, 

'mid  cried,  "Yes:  by  (iod!  I  will  write  it, 
thiiiigh  the  heavens  crush  mi!  t  "  and,  with 

;  the  aid  of  his  stick,  he  traced  in  lar<;u 
letters  the  name  of  Sylverine. 

iSilentlv.  with  the  end  of  her  parasol,  sho 

I  ell'accd  the  letters  slowly  one  by  one  :  then, 
without  raising  her  eyes,  she  said,  "  You  are 
insane." 

,      Ciiovan's  passion  broke  all  l)ound»  ;  and, 

I  forgetting  all  prudence,  he  told  her  how  ho 

'  had  loved  her  trom  the  first  day  that  Iw  had 
seen  her ;  that  he  was  invincibly  drawn 

I  toward  her ;  that  l»o  was  not  guilty  for 
yielding  to  a  jiassion  he  could  not  resist. 

'  That   his    will,  usually  so   strong,  was   as 

I  nothing  when  he  would  place  it  as  an  ol)- 
staele  against  his  overwhelming  love.  IIo 
spoke  with  ardor,  and  said  more  than 
he  intended.  "  I  love  you :  I  love  none  but 
you,"  cried  he,  taking  her  hands.  "  If  you 
refuse  me,  if  you  laugh  at  me,  it'  you  treat 
me  as  a  child  or  a  fool,  I  will  go  away,  and 
rush  into  danger  where  I  will  find  death." 
"And  Flavio  1 "  cried  Sylverine. 
It  was  the  drop  of  water  that  cooled  tho 
ebullition.  Giovan  sank  into  his  seat ;  and, 
covering  his  face  with  his  hand,  he  groaned, 
"  1  am  miserable,  I  am  miserable  !  " 

At  that  moment,  Sylverine  perhaps 
might  have  saved  all,  if  there  had  been  in 
Giovan  a  strength  that  she  had  the  right 
to  invoke.  A  man  of  sacrifice  in  his  pub- 
lic lite,  she  could  have  shown  him  the 
grandeur  of  a  sacrifice  made  to  gratitude 


?KaKWis«r 


11  ({ri:«'n  1>1  «no 
i/,iiii.  (li'ivan 
If  Hiimr  -lit'll^ 
•riiu"  nii'il>'*i"" 
1  ill  ill.'  iii..\in'^ 
HI  liail  t;ik.'n  n 
I  Hlllll  I"  ^'^'i'' 
511(1     wlllTC     lilt' 

imi-  ot  liiix  y" 

!(.,  it'  tlic  waves 

^Ivi'i'iiu'.     "  '^'>'' 

ul   him  (ixi'illy, 

mi.   of    hor   )uu 

with  iiniu'tiiosity, 
I!  1  will  writo  it, 
I  mill"  ami,  with 
iratc.l  ill  large 
rinc. 

)i"  hiT  iinrasol,  nho 
one  by  "lie  '•  ll>i'n» 
<hc  naiil, "  You  uro 

1  all  Ixmnils  ;  and, 
liu  tohl  her  iiow  ho 
rst  (lay  that  he  had 

invincihly  drawn 
rAi  not  'guilty  ibr 
,e  could  not  rc^ist. 
so   Btronjr,  was   as 

pi  lice  it  as  an  ob- 
rhclmiii;;  love.  He 
1  i^aid  more  than 
■ou ;  I  love  none  but 
ler  hands.  "  If  you 
I  at  me,  if  you  treat 

I  will  so  away,  and 
.  I  will  find  death." 
d  Sylverinc. 
rater  that  cooled  tho 
»k  into  liis  seat ;  and, 
his  hand,  he  groaned, 
I  miserable  1  " 

Sylverine  perhaps 
if  there  had  been  in 
lat  she  had  the  right 
1  siicrifiee  in  his  pub- 
lave  shown  him  the 
,ce  made  to  gratitude 


BYLVEUINK. 


1» 


nnd  f..l..nd.hi,.;  .h«  .•■"«M  have  entreated  | 

him  to  leave  her.  and.  profiiln-  by  hi.  real  , 

.orrow.  havo  »e.ured  fn.u.  him  a  proml.o 

tnilepart  at  one,. ;  Imt  nhe  was  enchained  , 

hvihe   power  ofthi.  m-w  all-eetlon  ;  and, 

ftiihoii  di  she  knew  she  was  pli.n-m,'  her- 

»,.lf  into  dreiullul  .•omplleations,  tar  Irom 

bein'  .liMuaved,  she  was  attrivted  by  the 

neeifof  strong  emotions,  which  slui  d.'sned 

without   ceasinjl.      M'S  alter    a    moments 

eiU.nce,  .he  exclaimed.^  "  Alas  !   and   what 

Kliidl  1  say  of  myself?  " 

It  was   an   avowal.     Giovan  seized  her 
hands,  ami  covered  them  with  kisses. 

The  ni-lit  had  come:  they  arose  to 
reliirn  U.  llaveuna.  Slowly,  step  by  step, 
they  crossed  the  obscure  forest,  and  mvol- 
„„„,ilv  ,hcv  subsided  into  the  reaction 
that  follows  such  a  crisis.  It  seemed  as 
thou-h  they  were  arrested  on  the  very 
threrhold  of  what  they  called  happiness, 
but  what  was  in  reality  treason.  They 
.poke  little,  ami  in  a  low  voice  Then, 
thinkini,'  of  tlie  honest  man  they  had  de- 
ceived, they  said.  '•  Poor  Flavio  I  " 

"  I  have  not  the  courage,"  said  Sylvenne, 
«•  to  ti'll  him  the  truth." 

"  Neither  have  I,"  replied  Giovan. 
"Tlien   he   must  remain   in    i'^noranco 
always,"  returned  Sylverine. 

Giovan  did  not  answer,  but  inclined  his 
head  in  Bi^n  of  aciiuiesence. 

One  might  say  that  Sylverine,  who  loved 
these  two  men,  and  who  did  not  understand 
her  own  diseased  anil  troubkd  heart,  had 
„b..yed  a  double  insti,iet,-alas!  too  cotu- 
mon,- fragility    and    perlidy.      But     or 
Giovan,  accustomed  to  the  loyalty  ot  a  hie 
where  sacrillee  demanded  the  greater  part, 
one  may  readily  believe  that>he   did   not 
re.i.'n  himself  to  the  sad  rvle  which  was 
reserved   for  him   without   many   interior 
combats.     There  would  have  been  a  cer- 
tain nobility  in  seeking  Flavio,  and  saying 
tohim,"!  love  Sylverine  1     How  shall  it 
be  settled  between  us  ?  "     But  Giovaii  was 
afraid  of  his  friend-     He  feared  to  blush 
belbre  him  who  alone  knew  how  great  was 
his  ingratitude.     So  he  preferred  to  enter 
into  the  labyrinths  of  an  intrigue  where  he 


would  be  rchiccd  to  unworthy  ni.e*  to 
a.-reivti  the  man  under  whose  root  he  lived, 
,u,.l  who  had  opem.d   to  him   the  d.H.r  of 

Sylverine  with  such  I idless  illden.'O. 

Ill  spite  of  the  revolts  of  cimsciemc  he  le- 
Mi.M.ed  himself  u.  the   unworthy  poMtion 
tliat  became  day  by  day  more  dilUciilt  to 
Hustain.     In  f.U't,  the  love   of  Giovan  lor 
Sylverine  was  m.t  a  caprice  .puckly  satis- 
tiiMl      l'osses^ion  only  exaggerated  it,  until 
it  became  an  ardent  passion,  exclusive  and 
tryannical.  which  im'reased  in  spite  ot  all 
obstacles  and  would  only  siippcrt  with  In- 
finite trouble  the  restraints  imposed. 

It  was  no  l.mger  Flavio  that  Sylvrino 
feared.  It  was  Giovan  ;  for  he  had  reached 
Huch  a  state  of  jealousy  that  he  would  break 
through  all  reserve,  ami  iutHic.'e  every 
right.  "  Vim  will  make  nm  hate  Flavio, 
Haid  he  to  Sylvcrluo. 

.'Alas!"  replied  she,  nearly  weeping, 
•«lt  is  Flavio  I  have  deceived  Ibr  you,  and 
not  you  for  him.     What  more  woul.l  you 

bave  V "  ,  r  1 1 

"If  he  w.as  but  your  husband  I  woiilU 
support  it,  for  I  should  be  obliged  to ;  but 
he  is  not.  and  I  am  right  to  exact  that  yoii 
break  absolutely  every  tie  with  hiiu.  Ah  1 
1  will  seek  him,  ami  tell  him  all,  and  then 
_  to  the  nier(7  of  God  1 " 

"  Uo  what  thou  wilt,  my  poor  Giovan. 
1  I  am  prepared  for  the  woyst.^^  The  heart 
'  of  Flavio  is  greater  than  thini'." 

(iiovan  fell  into  indecision.     He   loved 
liis  frienil;  he  adored  Sylverine  ;  yet  some- 
times he  felt  like  cursing   both.     The  vio- 
lence  of  his  nature  was   revealed  lu  the 
struggle,   ill   which   he  was    always    van- 
(piished,  never  having  the  strength  to  con- 
nuer   himself.     He   sullered    dee|.ly  i   and 
Flavio  anxiously  interrogated  him  as  to  the 
cause  of  his  apparent  illness.     Giovan  was 
on  the  point  of  throwing   himself  on    his 
friend's   neck,  and  of  telling  him  all    the 
lamentable  history,  but  a  mistaken  shame 
retained  the  confidence  on  his  lips :  he  pre- 
tended a  nervous  disease,  and  said  nothing. 
Outwardly, .at  least,  nothing  was  changed 
in  their  existence.    They  lived  as  unitedly 
as  before.    They  passed  their  evenings  to- 


raasT' 


156 


THE  DPJNKKRS   OF  ASHES. 


gfther  with  Sylverinc.  Toward  ini(liii:j;lit 
they  l)otli  siiitl  lulicii,  iuul  re'urnud  to  the 
house  of  Flavii>,  who,  tnmiiiiilly  (Ireiuniii;; 
anil  relh'ctin'j.  played  his  part  in  the  <h-nnia 
without  suspicion.  How  could  he  divine  V 
was  not  his  confi(h'nco  absolute  ? 

Svlverine,  who  loved  emotion,  had  more 
than   she   wished    i'or.     The    siru;^:,'le   in- 
creased nevertheless,  until  often  she  was 
ready    to   abandon   all.     The   violent  and 
incessant  reproaches  of  Oiovan  wearied  her 
beyond  measure.     Flavio,  in  his  paternal 
ailection,    always   had   a    mild,   indul'^ent 
kindness  for  her.     Now  there  was  nothin',' 
but  tempests :  she  had  desired  them,  it  is 
true ;  but  she  had  more  than  enou^'h.  Some- 
times, playin;;  upon  the  name,  of  Scojrlio, 
which  si;;nilies  clilFor  rock,  she  would  say, 
"  Ah !   thou   art   well-named.     I   shall   be 
wrecked  a;_'ainst  thee."     Nevertheless,  she 
closed  her  eyes,  and  drifted  with  the  cur- 
rent, not  havinj^  streni^th  to  return.     Often 
she  asked  herself,  "  How  will  thi.s  end  V  " 
then  she  fell  into  depths  of  sadness  when 
the  tenilerness  of  Flavio  only  seemed  a  re- 
proach.    She    loved   Giovan :    she    loved 
Flavio ;  which  did  she  love  the  best  ?    She 
could  not  say.     "  In  short,"   she  thought, 
"  if  both  were  in  the  perils  of  death,  if  both 
were  drowning  under  my  eyes,  which  would 
I  save  ?  "     She  rellecteil  a  long  time  upon 
the  question  she  addressed  to  herself;  then, 
bursting   into   tears,  she   cried,  "  Alas  1  I 
would  save  him  who  was  nearest  me,  and 
pass  the  remainder  of  my  life  in  regretting 
the  other."     Beyond  these  obscurities,  she 
could  find  no  light  to  guide  her :  she  was 
lost  in  the  confusion  of  her  own  sentiments. 
But,  by  a  contradiction  that  existed  with- 
out the  power  of  explanation,  she   often 
thought  of  Giova:i  when  with  Flavio,  and 
of  Flavio  when  near  Giovan.    If  one  had 
asked  her  which  she  preferred,  she  would 
have  replied  in  all  sincerity,  "  He  who  is 
not  here." 

Nevertheless,  life  went  on;  day  fol- 
lowed day,  and  the  three  persons  in  the 
drama  moved  in  the  same  circle.  Flavio 
always  calm;  Giovan  forever  meditating 
Bome  new  violence  that  he  dared  not  cxe- 


I  cute  ;  Sylverine  resigned  to  the  catastro- 
phe that  she  foresaw  without  power  to 
avert. 

It  was  a  chance,  or  an  imprudence,  of 
(Jiovan,  that  revealed  at  a  single  blow,  to 
his  friend,  the  truth  of  which  he  had  no 
suspicion.  As  nearly  always  in  such  cir- 
cumstances, fate  uses  the  mer  as  the  most 
simi)le  to  enlighten  the  darkness. 

Flavio  had  known  for  a  long  time    that 
the  Drinkers  of  Ashes  meditated  a  move- 
ment in  Southern    Italy.     He   had  calcu- 
lated the  chances,  — they  were  di>ubtfid,  if 
not  contrary;  but  he  had  judged  that  even 
an  imsuccessful  insurrection  was  necessary, 
if  but   to   awaken   the   interest  of  ()ub!ic 
opinion.     During  forty  years,  Ein-ope  had 
been  surprised  at  the  failure  of  all  tiie  ellbrts 
in  Italy,  which  seemed  often  only  to  tend 
to  the  shooting,  hanging,  or  imprisoning  of 
some  poor  creature,  generous  (!ven  to  iblly. 
The   insiu'rection  with  which    Flavio  was 
occupied  at  that  time  had  been  i)repared 
in  silence.     At  the  last  moment,  when  all 
should  be  ready,  a  chief  of  the  Drinkers  of 
Ashes   must,  according  to  the   custom   in 
su<'h  a  case,  be  on  the  spot  where  the  first 
blow  was  to  be  struck,  hiding  his  identity 
under  the  disguise  of  a /(V/dm/i/,  re-uniting 
under  his  hand  all   the  secret   threails  of 
the  adventure,  arranging  and  directing  all 
without  exciting  the  least  suspicion.     The 
movement  had  been  devised  and  conducted 
almost  to    the  point  of  disclosure    during 
the  absence  of  Giovan,  who  scarcely  sus- 
pected it.     His  friend  had   spoken  of  it 
vaguely,  waiting   until  all  was  concluded 
to  show  him  the  complete  plan. 

Flavio  was  then  much  engaged  with  the  im- 
portant arrangements ;  for,  if  the  insurrec- 
tion succeeded  in  the  Neapolitan  States,  he 
would  immediately  stir  up  Romagna,  and 
recommence  the  fruitless  campaign  of  1831. 
He  passed  his  time  meditating  upon  this 
project,  and  often  remained  entire  hours 
studying  the  map  of  Calabria,  searching 
the  points  of  landing,  and  the  roads  most 
sin-e  to  arrive  at  Cosenza,  from  which 
place  they  had  intelligence,  and  which 
they  hoped  to  make  the  centre  of  supplies 


1  to  the  catastro- 
witliout   power   to 

an  iinpriidenoe,  of 
,t  a  siiv^Ie  blow,  to 
'  wliii'h  he  hail  no 
Iways  in  such  cii'- 
,e  uicius  the  most 
darkness. 

a  long  time   that 
meditated  a  niove- 
y.     He   had  calcii- 
■y  were  doubtful,  if 
il  judged  that  even 
tion  was  necessary, 
interest  of  public 
years,  Eiu'ope  had 
are  of'all  tiie  ellbrts 
often  only  to  tend 
f,  or  iin[)risoninp;  of 
eroiis  (!ven  to  folly, 
wliich    Flavio  was 
liad  been  i)repared 
t  moment,  when  all 
of  the  Drinkers  of 
;  to  the   custom   in 
?pot  where  tlio  first 
hiding  his  identity 
fiflurnnU  re-uniting 
!  secret   tlireads  of 
ig  and  directing  all 
;ast  suspicion.     The 
i'ised  and  conducted 
f  disclosure    during 
I,  who  scarcely  sus- 
1  had   spoken  of  it 
all  was  concluded 
etc  plan. 

engaged  with  the  im- 
for,  if  the  insurrec- 
leapolitan  States,  he 
r  up  Romagna,  and 
ss  campaign  of  1831. 
leditating  upon  this 
nained  entire  hours 
Calabria,  searching 
and  the  roads  most 
isenza,  from  which 
Jigence,  and  which 
le  centre  of  suppliea 


SYLVEEINE. 


157 


for  the  insurrection,  as  well  as  the  centre 
from  which  the  revolt  would  spread  to  the 
neighboring  jjrovinces.     One  night  ho  sat 
until   bite,  searching   for   a  landing-place. 
Should  it  be  on  the   eastern  side,  toward 
Cotrone,  where  the  Bandieri  brothers  had 
stranded?     Or  should  it  be  on  the  west- 
ern side,  near  Sapri,  where,  later,  Tiscane 
came  to  dieV     lie  lelt  liitigued  with  med- 
itation, anil  a  prey  to  the  cruel  insomnia 
familiar  to  those   who  overtask  the  brain. 
Needing  some  one  to  speak  to,  to  distract 
his   thoughts  from   himself,  he   went   into 
the  chamber   of  Giovan  to  talk  with  him. 
The  room  was  emi)ty;   the  bed    :iad   not 
been  used.    Flavio  made  a  gesture  of  sur- 
prise, and  then  began  to  laugh.     "  Ah  1 " 
said  he,  "  he  seeks  adventure  in  llavenna, 
and  says  not  a  word  to  me.     What  child- 
ishness !  " 


He  descended,  and  left  the  house.     The 
moon,  at  its  full,  illuminated  with    pearly 
tints  the  heavens  sown  with  stars.    Reach- 
ing  the   house  of  Sylverine,  he    thought, 
"  Perhaps  she  has  not  retired,"  and  rapped 
lightly  at  her  window.  He  repeated  it  sev- 
eral  times,   but  no  one    replied.      "She 
*8leei>s,"  he  said,  and  turned  away  to  take 
one  of  those  long,  nocturnal   walks,   that 
calmed  and   soothed  him  after  his  mental 
fatigue.     Scarcely  had   he  taken  a   dozen 
steps  when  a  sudden  suspicion  wrung  his 
heart.     "  Giovan  absent !  the  door  of  Syl- 
verine closed  1"    He  strove  to  shake   off 
tlio   cruel   thought.     "I    am    insane,"  he 
said.   Nevertheless,  he  sat  down  at  the  foot 
of  a  tree,  and   surveyed   the  route   atten- 
tively.    For  more  than    an  hour,  he   re- 
mained plunged  in  retlections  that  tortured 
him.     Then  suddenly  ho  heard  a  window 
open  softly,  and  Sylveriue,  putting  out  her 
bead,  regarded  carefull>  the  road.    Flavio, 
lost  in   the   shade,   was   invisible.     Some 
moments  after  a  door  opened,  and  a  man 
descended    the    st.eps.      It    was    Giovan, 
who  walked   away  peacefully  in   the   di- 
rection of  his  dwelling. 

Flavio  started  up  with  a  bound,  and 
iaughed  with  dreadful  bitterness.  "  Ah  1 " 
said  he,  "  that  is  it." 


Then,  turning  his 


back  upon  the  house  that,  revealed  the 
odious  secret,  he  rushed  away  with  rapid 
steps.     To  his  first  burst  of  rage,  succeed- 
ed a  deep  dejection  at  finding  himself  sud- 
denly face  to  face  with  his  interior  ruin  ; 
then   a   profound  commiseration  filled  his 
heart  when   he  thought  of  the  treason  hid- 
den  with    such     care.     "Ah!"   said    he, 
"  how  they  must  sulfer  to  deceive  me  so  !  " 
His  great  soul,  his  unselfish  soul,  was  up- 
permost in  the  conilict ;  and  little  by  liitle 
it  calmed  the  finiipi-st  that  raged  with  such 
fury.    Still  he  returned  often  to  the  thought, 
"  Why  have    they   deceived    me  ?     Why 
have  they  been  so  false  ?     Am    I,  then   so 
cruel  and   severe  that  they  must  dupe  me 
by  the  deepest  hypocrisy?"     He  suifered 
much  in  his  friendship  for  Giovan,  in  his 
love  for  Sylverine,  and  his  confidence  for 
both.  "  Who, then, can  one  trust?  "demand- 
ed  he ;   and  the  grave  voice  of  his  own 
experience  answered,  "  No  one."     He   re- 
flected on  his  life,  the  great  aim  ho  pursued, 
the  important  matters  that  occupied  him  ; 
and,  in  comparison  with  these,  a  disappoint- 
ed  love  was  but   a  little  thing.     Still   his 
philosojjhical   reasoning   did     not   comfort 
liim.     "  My  life  is  sad,  tormented,  misera- 
ble :  Sylverine  was  my  only  light  and  joy. 
Why,  then,  has  she  deceived  me?     And 
Giovan,   the    child    who    has    grown    up 
under  my  eyes,  and  who  is  as  my  own  son." 
Then  he  repeated    his  eternal   question, 
"  Was  she  not  free  ?    Why,  then,  have  they 
both  deceived  me?     Their  only  excuse, 
if  they  have  one,  is  that  they  were  invinci- 
bly  attracted   towards  each   other    by   a 
passion  too  strong  for  them  to  resist ;  and 
they  have  hidden  it  ii-om  me  because  they 
feared  to  distress  me  1 "     He  held  fast   to 
that  thought :  it  gave  him  something  real 
to  seize  upon  ;  and  in  it  ho  found  almost  an 
excuse  for  them.   Although  he  accepted  the 
idea,  he  knew  it  was  but  false  coin.     He 
paid  it,  neviirtheless,  for  her.     Giovan  and 
Sylverine,  were  they  not  as  his  own  chil- 
dren ?  and  if  he  had  for  them  that   inex- 
haustible indulgence    that   survives   every 
thing  in  the  heart  of  a  parent,  how  could 
he  reproach  and  despise  them  ?    Certainly* 


158 


THE  DRINKERS  OP   ASHES. 


in  an  explanation,  he  coulil  have  played 
the  siiiicrior  role,  that  of  juil'^e  ;  but  to  hun 
till!  thought  of  such  an  explanation  was  hu- 
niiliatin;^  bi'yoiid  expression.  "  Fight  on, 
old  gladiator!"  he  said  at  last  with  a 
smile  "that  contained  many  tears,  "and 
learn  how  to  die  with  courage." 

AVhen  the  day  dawned  pale  and  cold 
over  awakening  nature,  it  revealed  Flavio 
leaning  against  a  tree,  watching  the  waves 
that  broke  tremblingly  on  the  shore.  I 
know  not  why ;  but  the  movement  always 
repeated,  and  the  murmur  always  the  same, 
Beemed  to  irritate  him.  "  O  brutal  and 
perfidious!"  he  cried,  throwing  a  sharp 
stone  against  the  advancing  wave  :  "  why 
do  you  complain  without  ceasing  V  " 

That  niuht  of  anguish  and  contradiction 
—  a  night  more  terrible  than  that  of  Jacob  ; 
for  Flavio  had  to  struggle,  not  only  with  his 
good,  but  also  with  his  bad  angels  —  purified 
his  heart  already  so  noble,  and  strength- 
ened it  in  its  sorrow.  It  was  not  without 
great  ami  painful  convulsions  of  feeling  that 
he  took  his  resolution  ;  but  at  last  he  took 
it,  and  he  kept  it.  "  And  sc."  said  he,  "  I 
have  but  two  friends." 

When  the  three  met  again,  the  face  of  Fla- 
vio had  resumed  its  habitual  impassibility  ; 
and  Sylverine.iii  spite  of  her  inquietude,  read 
nothing  there.  "  I  knocked  last  night,"  he 
said  to  her;  "  but  you  did  not  hear."  She 
•was  not  re-assured.  Was  Flavio  as  ignorant 
as  he  appeared  ?  She  believed  not.  What 
•was  then  passing  within  his  heart?  a  de- 
crease of  love,  or  an  excess  of  generosity  ? 
She  knew  not.  In  any  case,  she  would  have 
preferred  his  reproaches ;  for  she  felt  ill  at 
ease  before  the  Sphinx,  who  would  not  pro- 
nounce tlie  word  of  his  enigma. 

From  that  day  there  was  a  certain  change 
in  the  habits  of  Flavio :  he  came  less  often 
to  the  house  of  Sylverine  ;  and  sometimes 
in  the  evening  he  did  not  appear  with  Gio- 
van  as  had  been  the  custom. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  Flavio  ?  "  she 
said  to  him  :  "  1  scarcely  see  thee  now." 

'•  I  have  much  to  do  at  present,"  he  re- 
plied.    She  was  ast(mishe(l   and  distressed 
at  his  excessive  reserve.     He  was  no  longer 
t 


the  same  to  her,  and  she  was  as  irritated  as 
though  it  were  treason.     She  was  tossed  be- 
tween two  contrary  currents,  anil  knew  not 
where  to  rest.     At  times  she  said,  '•  What 
have  I  done  that  he  should  no  Itmger  love 
ine  ?  "     At  other  times  she  understood  her 
guilt;  and,  looking  into  the  very  depths  of 
her  heart,  she  knew  how  odious  was  her 
crime.     Then  she  asKed  herself,  "  Why  do 
I  complain  ?   has  he  not  the  right  to  desi)iso 
me  ?  "     Still,  she  could  not  accustom  her- 
,^elf  to  the  thought  that  she  had  lost  the  es- 
teem and  tenderness  of  Flavio.     At  times 
she  blamed  Giovan,  forgetting  that  she  was 
as  much  in  fault  as  he ;  and  that  it  was 
her  own  will  that  had  plunged  her  into  such 
dreadful  complications.      And   so   she   re- 
volved in  this  bewildering  circle,  at  times 
resolved  to  tell  all  to  Flavio,  and  entreat 
him  to  take  her  away  from  Giovan  :  again 
she  thought  of  his  despair,  and   ima.;iiied 
that  he  also  was  necessary  to  her  happiness. 
In  this  way  she  was  something  as  a  needle 
between  two  magnetic  poles,  sorely  bailliMl 
and  perplexed.     She  had  believed  that  love 
consists  in  loving  much ;  and,  in  spite  of  her 
sorrows  and  her  struggles,  she  did  not  yet 
understand  that  love  consists  in  loving  but 
one.     Giovan  understood  it,  for  he  desired 
to  tear  every  thought  from  her  heart  that 
was  not  for  him  :  his  love  —  the  love  that 
at  first  had  appeared  so  resigned  —  had  now 
become  a  permanent  fury.    "  As  long  as  we 
two  are  together  near  thee,"  said  he  to  Syl- 
verine, "  there  can  be  no  happiness  for  us." 
She  had  spoken  to  him  of  the  reserve  of 
Flavio  :  he  did  not  believe  it,  or  at  least  his 
jealousy  would  not  allow  hi  in  to.      "  Love 
is  a  repose,"  she  said,  "  and  not  a  combat." 
Still  he  was  none  the  less  aggressive  and 
violent :  obeying  his  nature,  which  was  ex- 
clusive even  to  injustice,  he  made  Sylverine 
suflPer  because  he  sutfered  himself. 

Flavio,  who  lived  impassibly  in  the  secret 
of  his  own  sorrows,  read  upon  the  pallid  fea- 
tures of  Giovan  the  too  visible  traces  of  his 
ceaseless  struggle.  All  was  explained  to  him 
now:  the  irritability  of  his  friend,  the 
unquiet  sadness  of  Sylverine.  Looking  at 
himself,  and  comparing  his  own  sorrow  with 


■saia.a'jijti^-i^ 


W!i9  as  irritated  as 
Slu!  was  tossud  i)L'- 
nts,  anil  k\w\v  not 

slie  itaid,  '•  Wliat 
lid  no  lon'^or  lovo 
he  understood  luT 
tlie  very  dejitlia  of 
w  odioi's  was  her 

liLT-seli',  "  Why  (lo 
tlie  ri^lit  to  despiso 
not  accustom  hor- 
she  h:ul  lost  the  es- 

Flavio.  At  times 
jetting  that  she'  was 
1 ;  and  that  it  was 
lun<^ed  her  into  such 
And  so  she  re- 
•in^  circle,  at  times 
Flavio,  and  entreat 
rem  Giovan :  again 
pair,  and  ima'^incd 
iry  to  herhap[)iness. 
iiething  as  a  needle 

poles,  sorely  baiUiMl 
ad  believed  that  lovo 
;  and,  in  spite  of  her 
les,  she  did  not  yet 
Hisiats  in  loving  but 
o<l  it,  for  he  desired 
from  her  heart  that 
love  —  the  love  that 
resigned  —  had  now 
iry.  "  As  long  as  we 
;hee,"  said  he  to  Syl- 
no  happiness  for  us." 
n  of  the  reserve  of 
ieve  it,  or  at  least  his 
ow  him  to.  "  Love 
'  and  not  a  combat." 

less  aggressive  and 
ature,  which  was  ex- 
e,  he  made  Sylverine 
red  himself, 
ipassibly  in  the  secret 
,d  upon  the  pallid  fea- 
3  visiblo  traces  of  his 
I  was  explained  to  him 

of  his  friend,  the 
Iverine.  Looking  at 
g  his  own  sorrow  with 


SYLVERINE. 


ir>9 


the  "re.atneas  of  his  sacrifice,  he  said,  "  And  i  have  neither  strength  nor  virtue :  neverihe- 

"  .    .       __       .  .  .  -r  ,      t  .    .1  •_ 1    :*    :..    *1 


they  are  not  even  hapjiy  !  "  He  knew  the 
character  of  (iiovan  ;  and  he  expected  every 
day  to  see  hiin  enter,  furious,  not  knowing 
that  he  had  learned  all,  and  to  hear  him  ile- 
niand  in  his  impetuous  manner,  '•  By  what 
right  do  you  love  Sylverine  V  "  As  much 
to  escape  from  himself  as  to  force  his  obtru- 
sive thoughts  to  silence,  he  worked  with 
ardor,  and  prepared,  without  relaxation, 
the  movement  that  the  Drinkers  of  Ashes 
intended  to  make  in  the  Neapolitan  prov- 
inces. 

The  day  that  he  feared  airived.  One 
nioruing,  being  alone  in  his  room,  occupied 
with  writing  an  important  letter  in  cipher, 
he  saw  Giovan  enter.  At  the  first  glance, 
he  knew  that  the  decisive  moment  had  ar- 
rived. Giovan,  his  eyes  on  fire,  his  lips  pale 
and  trembling,  advanced  rapidly  toward 
him,  saying  excitedly,  "  I  love  Sylverine, 
and  she  loves  me.  I  wish  thee  to  know  it." 
"  I  know  it,"  replied  Flavio  calmly. 
The  blow  was  sudden  for  Giovan,  who 
felt  his  anger  soften  in  the  presence  of  his 
friend  ;  but  he  quickly  recovered  himself, 
and  cried  angrily,  "  If  you  know  it,  why  do 
you  allow  itV" 

"  Because  I  love  thee,"  replied  Flavio 
with  a  smile  that  brought  the  tears  to  his 
eyes ;  "  because  1  am  the  only  judge  of  my 
renouncements  ;  and  perhaps,  also,  because 
it  is  more  sweet  for  me  to  suffer,  than  to 
know  that  thou  art  unhappy." 

Giovan  could  contain  his  feelings  no 
longer ;  throwing  himself  upon  the  breast 
of  Flavio,  he  burst  into  tears.  "  Ah  1 "  he 
cried,  "  tliou  art  truly  our  dear  Masterna ; 
thou  art  truly  he  whom  we  call  heart  of  dia- 
mond, the  greatest  of  us  all !  Curse  me,  beat 
me,  driveme  from  thee;  but  do  not  in  pity 
kill  me  with  thy  kindness  1  Thou  makest  me 
hale  myself.  What !  wilt'  thou  say  noth- 
ing V  Thou  knowest  all,  and  hath  not  mur- 
dered me  like  a  dog  V  I  adore  I.;  •.  I  am 
dying  ■.'.  ith  jealousy ;  I  am  maa  at  the 
thought  of  her  loving  thee ;  I  despise  my- 
self beyond  expression,  but  I  cannot  help 
it.  I  am  bewitched  ;  I  am  possessed  ;  I  can- 
not recover  myself,  an<l  I  am  miserable.    I 


less  I  must  do  soinetliini :  and  it  is  tlioii 
who  must  aid  me.  It  is  Ihoii  who  hast  ever 
assisted  me.  Tliou  hast  tau'iht  me  what 
I  know  ;  and,  if  I  have  not  fallen  into  the 
gulf  of  debauchery,  it  is  because  tliou  hast 
always  upheld  me  and  restrained  me.  In 
spite  of  all.  thou  art  calm  and  indulgent. 
Why  dost  thou  not  reproach  me  ?  " 

"  Thou  reproachest  thyself,"  replied  Fla- 
vio.    "  I  have  nothing  to  say." 

Giovan  had  a  spasm  :  he  held  his  heart 
in  both  hands.  "  What  wilt  thou  do  ? 
What  wilt  thou  do  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  What  wilt  thou  that  I  do,  my  child  ?  " 
demanded  Flavio.  "  Canst  thou  not  enjoy 
thy  happiness  in  peace,  without  disturbing 
that  of  others  ?  " 

''  Thou  lovest  her  no  longer,  then  V  " 
cried  Giovan. 

"  Ah  1  why  should  1  show  it  ?  "  returned 
Flavio.     "  I  love  her  still,  and  more  than 


ever. 

"  Thou  tearest  my  heart  in  shreds," 
cried  Giovan,  falling  into  a  chair,  and  cov- 
ering his  face  with  his  hands. 

Flavio,  hearing  him  sob,  took  him  in  his 
arms,  and  caressed  him  as  mother  would  a 
sick  child.  But  Giovan  discn'j:ag(Ml  him- 
self by  a  sudden  movement  from  his  gentle 
embrace ;  and,  raising  toward  him  his  fiice 
disfigured  with  anger,  he  cried,  "  Ah,  thou 
art  my  evil  genius  !  Thou  hast  entangled 
me  in  political  impossibilities,  and  the  only 
woman  I  can  ever  love  thou  lovest  also." 

Flavio  made  a  gesture  of  inefiable  pity. 
"  Poor  child  !  "  said  he  :  "  how  thou  must  suf- 
fer to  be  so  unjust  1  I  am  sorry  for  thee,  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

"  I  will  not  have  thy  pity,"  cried  Giovan. 
His  tears  were  dried:  passion  had  taken 
possession  of  hun,  and  he  overwhelmed 
Flavio  with  reproaches ;  he  heaped  injustice 
upon  injustice  with  rudeness  and  insult. 

Flavio  looked  at  him  with  sorrow.  He 
was  grieved  that  such  a  soul  should  so  for- 
get and  dishonor  itself.  At  last  he  took 
his  hands ;  and,  turning  his  calm  face  full 
upon  him,  he  said,  "  Compose  thyself, 
young  volcano,  and  mistake  not  anger  lor 


160 


THE  DRINKERS  OF  ASHES. 


strength.  We  are  men  I  remeinbor  that, 
anil  leave  all  violences  to  sick  cliililren. 
AVhy  dost  thou  come  to  reproach  me  in  this 
manner?     And  what  wilt  thou   have  of 

meV" 

"  1  will  finish  this  at  once  ami  foi^ever," 
cried  Giovan,  "  for  I  cannot  live  in  such 
an-^uish.  One  of  us  is  one  too  many  under 
Leaven.  Let  us  go  to  the  shore,  and  fi.;ht 
until  death  comes  to  relieve  one;  and  Syl- 
verine  shall  he  the  reward  of  the  other." 

"  Enou;4h  1  "  replied  Flavio  with  a  smile. 
«  Wh.at  kniu'ht-errantry  I  Thou  forgettest 
that  the  time  of  Ariostes  has  passed." 
Then  all  his  features  sollcned  with  an  ex- 
pression of  infinite  sadness,  and  he  added, 
"  And  thou  fori^ettest  .above  all,  that  the 
survivor  would  die  of  grief  at  having  mur- 
dered his  friend.  And  thou  forgettest 
many  other  things,  my  poor  Giovan  :  thou 
forgettest  that  we  do  not  belong  toourselves, 
and  aiat  we  have  no  right  to  dispose  of  our 
lives  arbitrarily ;  thou  foi-gertest  our  old 
friendship ;  and  I  understand  it,  for  passion 
hath  made  thee  insane  ;  but  remembcv  the 
oath  that  thou  hast  sworn,  and  sealed  with 
the  ashes  and  the  blood." 

Giovan  cried  out  in  despair :  his  heart 
was  like  a  field  of  battle  whereon  contended 
three  armies  of  equal  force.  "  Have  pity 
on  me  ! "  said  he  to  Flavio :  "  I  can  do  no 

more." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Flavio  walked 
the  leniTth  and  breadth  of  the  chamber. 
And  Giovan,  extended  upon  a  sofa  with 
his  face  buried  in  the  cushions,  struggled 
■with  all  his  strength  against  the  passions 
that  overwhelmed  him,  passing  from  one 
extreme  to  the  other,  without  the  power  of 
taking  any  decided  step.  At  last  he  arose. 
«  Come  with  mo  to  her,"  he  cried. 

«  Of  what  use?  "  said  Flavio,  "of  what 
use  to  make  her  the  witness  of  our  violence, 
and  to  afflict  her  with  our  discords?  " 

"  Come  to  her  house,"  continued  Giovan. 
"Come,  I  pr.ay  and  entreat  you.  And 
whatever  she  pronounces  will  be  as  the 
judgment  of  God.  1  will  accept  it,  and 
Bubmit  to  it."  ^^ 

They  lell  the  house  togetoer,    "Ah I 


said  Giovan,  walking  by  the  side  of  his 
friend,  "If  tliou  couMsi  know  what  I sutfer, 
and  what  I  hiive  suH'cred." 

"  ITiou  hast  not  sullered  alone,"  returned 
Flavio;  "but  the  cries  of  thine  own  sorrow 
hath  so  deafened  thee  that  thou  hast  not 
heard  the  moaning  of  others." 

Tliey  entered  the  presence  of  Sylvin-ine. 
She  appeared  calm;  but  her  heart  beat 
violently,  ibr  it  was  not  dilUcult  to  read 
their  emotion  in  their  f.ices.  However,  she 
restrained  herself,  and  said,  "  What  good 
fortune  t " 

Giovan  walked  rapidly  tow^vrd  her. 
'•  Listen  1 "  cried  he.  "  Flavio  knows  all ; 
we  have  both  come :  we  love  thee ;  which 
dost  thou  love  ?  speak  quickly." 

Sylverine  arose  pale  and  trembling ;  and, 
regarding  the  two  men  who  disputed  for 
her  heart,  she  placed  a  hand  on  the  shoul- 
der of  each,  and  dared  to  say,  "  I  love 
you  both."  Then,  as  if  crushed  by  the 
avowal,  she  hurst  into  tears. 

«  O  misery  1 "  cried  Giovan  :  "  is  it  not 
better  to  die,  than  to  live  thus  ?  " 

Flavio  approached  Sylverine,  took  her  in 
his  arms,  and  kissed   her   forehead;    and, 
holding  her  to  his  heart,  he  said,  "  My  dar- 
liu'T  child,  you  must  not  demand  of  men 
what  gods  could  not  endure.     I  am  an  old 
soldier.     I  have  had  so  many  wounds  that 
I  know  not  even  the  nubmer  of  my  scars.    I 
believe  I  love  thee ;  but  I  will  cure  myself 
of  this  weakness.     Thou  lovest  life,  and  I 
regard  it  not ;  (or  I  know  what  it  is  worth. 
I  am  an  obstacle  to  thy  happiness,  —  thee 
whom  I  consider  with  the  tenderness  of  a 
mother ;  to  Giovan,  who  is  as  my  child.    I 
will  retire  from  thy  path,  and  trouble  thee 
no  more.    Be  happy,  then,"  added  ho  with 
some  bitterness,  "  and  speak  of  me  when 
thy  tendernesses  leave  thee  the  time." 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  do  not  leave 
us  1 "  cried  Sylverine. 

"  I  will  not  have  thy  sacrifice,"  said  Gio- 
van with  anger. 

"  Whether  thou  wilt  or  not,  I  will  accom- 
plish it.  Thou  wouldst  have  accepted  it  if 
it  had  been  imposed  by  Sylverine.  Then, 
by  what  right  dost  thou  refuse  it  because  it 


8YLVEUINE. 


IGl 


\';r  by  the  siilo  of  liis 
1. 1st  know  what  IsulTer, 
Il-ro.l." 

illcruil  iiloiic,"  returned 
ies  of  thine  own  sorrow 
ee  that  thou  liast  not 
of  others." 

presence  of  Sylverinc. 
1 ;  but  her  heart  beat 
vs  not  (lilUeult  to  read 
iir  faces.  However,  she 
and  said,  "  What  good 

rapidly    tow;vrd    her. 
ic.     "  Flavio  knows  all ; 
;  we  love  thee;  which 
•ak  (iiiickly." 
)a!e  and  tremblinj; ;  and, 

men  who  disputed  for 
cd  a  liand  on  the  shoiil- 
dared  to  say,  "  I  love 
,  as  if  crushed  hy  the 
nto  tears. 

ried  Giovan  :  "  is  it  not 
to  live  thus  'I  " 
B(l  Sylverine,  took  her  in 
fed  her  tbreliead ;  and, 
heart,  lie  said,  "  My  dar- 
ust  not  demand  of  men 
at  endure.  I  am  an  old 
id  so  many  wounds  that 
le  nubmer  of  my  scars.  I 
; ;  but  I  will  cure  myself 

Thou  lovest  life,  and  I 
I  know  what  it  is  worth, 
to  thy  happiness,  —  thee 
with  the  tenderness  of  a 
a,  who  is  as  my  child.  I 
ly  path,  and  trouble  thee 
)py,  then,"  added  he  with 
"  and  speak  of  me  when 
leave  thee  the  time." 
of  Heaven,  do  not  leave 
•ine. 
'e  thy  sacrifice,"  said  Gio- 

1  wilt  or  not,  I  will  accom- 
rouldst  have  accepted  it  if 
ised  by  Sylverine.  Then, 
St  thou  refuse  it  because  it 


is  voluntary  ?     Learn   to  look    into  thine  [  Imvin.;  repudiated  all  probity,  swrifice  the 
own  heart,  and  take  care  that  thy  intolera-    liappiness  of  olliers  to  their  own  .sellishness. 


4>> 


ble  pri'le  does  notcauseto  otiiers  niori!  sor- 
row than  they  can  bear."  lie  extenile(l  liis 
haiiils  to  (liovan  and  Sylverine.  '•  God 
bless  you  both  !  "  said  h(!.  Then  he  went 
aw:iy  without  turning!  his  head.  He  did 
not  u'o  to  his  own  house,  but  walked  on  until 
he  reached  the  shore  of  the  Adriatic  :  there 
he  remained  a  lon;^  time,  lost  in  thou;j;hta 
more  soni!)re  and  more  profound  than  the 
sea  that  beat  at  his  teet.  When,  toward 
evenin.',  he  returned  to  his  house,  he  no 
longer  ibund  (iiovan  there.  He  had  hired 
an  apartment  in  a  little  villa  near  that  in- 
habited l)y  Sylverine. 

Flavio  rarely  went  out,  only  during  the 
evening ;  then  he  wandered  through  the 
great  l()rest  of  pines  which  hid  iiim  in  its 
shadows.  He  evaded  Giovan,  and  Giovan 
evaded  liim.  After  all,  neither  of  these 
three  persons  was  happy,  nor  could  tluiy 
be  :  they  thought  constantly  of  each  other 
with  aorrowfid  anxiety.  "  She  loves  him 
yet,"  said  (iiovan.  '•  Is  it  true  that  ho  no 
longer  loves  me?"  demanded  Sylverine. 
"  I  love  her  always,"  thought  Flavio. 

It  was,  however,  not  Flavio  who  had  the 
most  to  regret.  He  had  a  solid  basis  on 
whieh  to  support  his  sorrow.  Though  the 
revelation  that  camo  so  unexpectedly 
had  been  terrible,  the  sacrifice  that  fol- 
lowed had  been  free  and  spontaneous, 
given  bv  himself,  and  of  his  own  free  will. 
The  only  one  of  these  three  unhappy  be- 
ings who  had  acted  according  to  the  dic- 
tates of  a  better  nature,  he  preferred  his 
suifering  to  a  pitiful  compromise  which 
nothing  could  induce  him  to  make.  He  re- 
gretted Sylverine  as  one  regrets  an  absent 
love ;  he  thought  of  Giovan  as  of  a  sick 
friend  ;  but  at  least  he  reposed  upon  the  con- 
viction that  he  had  done  his  duty  without 
hesitating. 

Giovan  was  not  satisfied.  Irritated 
against  himself,  irritated  against  others, 
ready  to  burst  into  a  rage  at  the  slightest 
contradiction,  he  could  not  find  a  place  in 
his  heart  that  was  not  full  of  sorrowful 
regrets :  it  is  the  fate  of  those,  who,  not 
U 


.Ml  th:it  should  liave  remlereil  him  h:i[)py 
made  hlni   sull'er  ;  the  absolute   submission 
of  Sylverini!  was  to  him  a  e(inst:int  and  in- 
su|)portable  reproach.     "  Of  whom  does  she 
think  ?  "  he  said,  when  often,  immnhile  and 
dreamy,  she  kept  long  sili'iiees  whieh  he  re- 
spected  in    spite   of  himself.     Sometimes, 
when  a  gleam  of  reason  came  to  clear  the 
shadows  that  enveloped  him,  showing  him 
Flavio,  .so  devoted,  so  generous,  who  for  so 
many  years  had  had  (or  him  the  tenilerness 
of  a  fuller,  he  fiilt  the  deepest  remorse  min- 
gliMl  with  desire  to  go  to  him,  to  entreat  his 
pardon,  and  to  restore  to  him  all  he  had 
taken.     But  of  what  good  were  these  im- 
pressions?    He  lelt  that  he  was  enslaved, 
bewitched,  as  he  had  said  to  Flavio;  nnd, 
if  in  the  evening  he  had  made  the  sacrihce, 
the  !U!,xt  morning  he  would   have  cursed 
himself  tor  having  done  it.     At  other  times, 
more  docile  to  his   imperious   nature,    he 
meilitated    quitting    Ilavenna,  and    taking 
refuge  in  some  otiier  part  of  Tuscany,  car- 
rying Sylverine  with  him,  and  so  separating 
her  from  ELavio,  whoso  presence  —  so  dis- 
creet, so  absent,  dare  I  say,  tlwugh  it  was  — 
only  enraged  him. 

As  to  Sylverine,  never  ship  without  com- 
pass, driven  by  the  tempests,  was  more  cru- 
elly tossed  than  that  poor  soul,  who  for  a 
long  time  had  found  no  star  to  guide 
her.  She  regretted  Flavio  witi;  a  fervor 
that  would  have  caused  her  to  think 
.she  loved  him  aione,  if  she  had  not 
known  how  much  .she  loved  Gio'-an.  Un- 
certain between  those  two  soatiments,  she 
lived  a  life  without  happiness,  dignity,  or 
satisfaction.  She  passed  long  hours  in 
dreaming  of  the  execution  of  impossible 
projects.  She  regarded  with  affright  the 
gordian  knot  thai  she  had  not  the  courage 
to  cut,  asking  often,  "  Will  it  unravel  it- 
self? "  Weakness  is  sometimes  as  much  a 
sin  as  is  perversity.  Flavio  had  never 
appeared  at  her  house  since  the  scene  I 
have  recorded,  and  she  desired  to  see  him 
beyond  expression.  She  could  not  under- 
stand his  sacrifice,  neither  could  she  ac- 


Rwa.WBjWk^-;jkwrtNWJ^y?pf^ggy^siWi<*iWM^v.j^'.itft^>  ^^ 


c.ou,.t  for  -lul  .he  styk..l  an  "excess  of, 
virtue."  Tlu.,vw.sa,.vull.ckoli.nn.Mple, 
in  l.er,  but  Flavio  was  in  lau  t  there. 
-1  «.lfli  liis  i(  ea  (iltecuia- 
tions,  l>eha.l  not  taken  care  to  ashumhu 
Boul  to  .generous  sentiments.  Ihe  soil  was 
rich,  but  he  had  sown  nolhin:,  :  therelore 
r^  had  no  ri,ht  to  complain  that  there  ^v.s 

notlnn.^toveap.  Sylverine,  >vo  cat.  t nb 
Ty  thought  not  of, hat.  She  Hearehe.l  or 
Fhvio,  she  followed  him,  .he  waited  ior 
bin,.  One  evening,  unexpectedly,  .he  met 
hh„;a„d,run,.in;^.oldn..Bhep«therarm 
S;inhi;andsaidjoyiully,-'AtlastUee 

''nrreco,ni^ed  quickly  hi.  peril,  but  l.ad 
the  strength  to  jest  in  .pi,e  01  Ins  trouble, 

an.l,  .lisen-a-in-  his  arm,  he  s'"'l' " 

"Dost  thou  romcnbcr  the  words  of  the 
French  son- the  children  sing 


those  secret  .neans  which  ,he  Drinkers  of 


•  Wo  will  go  no  '"«'•''  Into  ,110  wood. 
The  iBurcle  ftU  are  cut.' ' 

..Why  dost  thou  fly  from  mc,  dear 
Flavio?  Why  hast  thou  left  .nc  ?  Is  .,ot 
,he  best  place  in  my  heart  lor  thee  t 

..llni:"   said  he,   placing  h.s  fingers 

upon  her   lips.      "An   ^^V^^^'^';^'^^ 
.  Thou  thallnot  tempt  the  saints;    at^I^u 
buta,nan."    The.i  feeling, pe.haps.thalus 
coura-^e  failed,  and  his  en.otion  gained,  he 
k3  her  hands,  and   rushed  away  with 

hurried  steps.  . 

Shelookedaftevhimwithout  making  a 

gesturetovetainhlin;butasnnlec^joy 
trembled  on  her  lips,  and  lighted  up  lu^i 
eyes.    "  Ah  1 "   she   said,  "he    loves    me 

''yL  certainly,  he  loved  her  still;  for  he 
J  n't  one  of  those  who  know  how  to  take 

back  what  they  have  once  given. 


II. 


Two  months  had  passed,  without  bring- 
•  Tin-e  to  their  sorrowful  situation, 

ing  any  change  to  t  ^    .     ^    ^ne  of 

when  Giovan  received  Buaaeniy,  u;r 


those  secret.   iii>.v"=  • 

Ashes   employ   f..r    their   comn.nn.cat.ons, 
orders  to  leave  «ave,.na  within  .i^\M  days, 
an.l  to   preset  Imnself  at  a  point  des.g- 
nated  on  the  bo,-ders  of  Calabria,  to  take 
,be    inune.liate  direction   of  a  movement 
,vhich  ha.l  been  preparing  tor  son-  ,,m3 
These     instructions    ad,n,tted    ol    .,ei  her 
,,„„bt  nor  delay.    It  was  a  thunderbolt  ,o 
(Jiovan;  who,  instead  of  accepting  h.s  »W6 
with  resignation,  if  not  with  eag.-rness,  .as 
was  his  du,y,  declare.1  that  the  f.reler  was  ab- 
surd, and  impossible  of  execulnm.       51. -vi- 
ed by  the  passion  that  overwhelmvd  h> m, 
be  saw  nothing  clearly  beyond;  and  so  ho 

bna'incd   that   this   s.uhlen   order   was   a 
scheme  invented  by  F hivio  to  tree  Sylver- 
ine  from  his  presence,  that  he  might  repos- 
sess her  love.     "It  is  he  who  has  done  this. 
Why  does  he  not  go  himselt .'        lie  '"i 
not  reflect  that   it  was  for  bin.  espec.ally 
that  this  task  had  been  reserved  :  as  he  had 
lived  so  long  in  the  Neapolitan  provinces, 
all  the  means  of  action  were  known  to  h.m. 

Let  what  may  come,"  said  he,  "Tsha 
not  be  taken  in  so  clmusy  a, let;  and  I  will 
not  -o."    Then  he  wrote  to  the  ch.et  of  the 
Drinkers   of  Ashes,   notifyb.g  him  of  h.s 
refus..l  to  engage  in  an  enterprise  wWh  he 

considered  inopportune.  I.i  that  case  .is 
in  many.others,  Giovan  was  u.ijust ;  tor  ho 
truth  was,  that  Flavio,  desirous  ol  rush  ng 
into  action  to  escape  Ins  trouble,  h.td 
asked  to  direct  the  expedition  h.msell ;  and 
they  had  replied  that  his  presence  was  in- 
disiLsable  in  the  Papal  States,  us  he  would 
have  to  rise,  in  case  of  success,  to  g.ve  aid 

to  a  Neapolitan  movement.    1<  lavio  knew 
l.owtoobey,because  he  was  accustomed 

to  command,  and  was  resigned  without  a 

murmur.  .     ^  , .  „ 

Giovan  had  consulted  no  one  m  taking 

bis  resolution.    He  said  nothing  to  bylver- 

ine;  and,  as  he  never  saw  Flavio,  naurally 

be  had  not  spoken  to  him.  Nevertheless, 
what  he  feared  was  not  long  inarming. 
About  eight  days  after  he  had  sent  the  let- 
ter announcing  his  refusal  one  evening 
toward  the  hoar  of  midnight,  he  walked 
hurriedly    along    the    seashore,  until    he 


c;h  lUc  Driiikci-s  of 
ir   ooiiuunuuMl '•'>"'> 
a  within  (•i:^lit  <liiy:*, 
t'  iit  ii  liniiit  (lo^i;^- 
of  Ciiliiliriii,  to  t;»l;o 
on   of  a  iiiDvemunt 
iriii'j;  I'or  sdim!  tiiii3. 
..linittod    of    luitliiT 
IAS  11  thunilcrl)olt  to 
ol"  iU'iTiitiii'j;  hi*  '''''"^ 
,t,  witli  I'lViiTin'SH,  as 
that  the  r>nliM-w:i-^ilb- 
jf  cxufUlinn.     15!iml- 
it  ovfrwlii'linvil  '"'"> 
y  iH-yoiiil ;  ii"'l  so  ho 
siidd'cn  onkT   was   a 
i'lavio  to  t'rc(!  Sylver- 
,  tliat  ho  \wih^  I'^'l'os- 
i  be  wlio  has  done  this, 
ohim.ein"     lie  '1'>1 
vas  I'oi-  him  csiwcially 
en  reservod  :  as  lie  had 

Neapolitan  provineus, 
ion  were  known  to  hira. 
,„o,"  said  he,  '•!  ^hall 
luuisy  a  net ;  and  I  will 
,vrote  to  the  ehiet'  of  the 
,   notityin-j;  him  of  his 
I  an  enterpvi^^e  which  ho 
tune.    In  that  case,  as 
,van  was  unjust ;  for  the 
ivio,  desirous  of  rushin<; 
icape    his    trouble,  had 
expedition  himself;  and 
liat  his  presence  was  in- 
Papal  States,  as  he  would 
sc  of  success,  to  ^ive  aid 
novcraent.     Flavio  knew 
luse  ho  was   accustomed 

was  resigned  without  a 

nsulted  no  one  in  taking 
le  said  nothing  to  Sylvcr- 
ever  saw  Flavio,  naturally 
.n  to  him.     Nevertheless, 
was  not  long  in  arriving. 
,  after  he  had  sent  thelet- 
his  refusal,  one  evening, 
r  of  midnight,  ho  walked 
r    the    seashore,   until    he 


V 


BYLVERINK. 


163 


reached  a  siwt  where  there  were  neither  |  <le:-[teiate  enterprise.  No  one  can  know 
tre.'s  nor  houses :  he  stoppeil  and  listened ;  lii'tter  than  myself  (he  comliiinii  of  the 
a  man  rominjj  from  the  opiiosite  direction  !  Southern  provinces;  and  1  allirni  lliaf  they 
apiiroache.l  liim  ;     and,    hy    the     (loiil)tfiil  j  are   not   ready;   that    the  counti-y,  crushed 


li'lit  of  tiie  stars,  he  recognized  Flavi 


Art  thou,  then,  called  '.' "  said  Giovan.      king,  will  not  echo  a  response  to  the  cries 


under  the  double  despotism  of  clcr','y  and 


"  I  am  called,"  replied  Flavio. 
They  remained  without  speaking  again, 
until  a  boat  api)roached  the  shore,  an<l  left 
rapidly,  after  a  man  had  Icapcil  upon  the  i 'rii.ii,"  adij.d  1 
sand. 

The  now-comcr  walked  straight  toward 
the  two,  who,  enveloped  in  the  darkness, 
awaited  him  at  some  distauct!.  St(i|ipiug 
within  a  few  steps  of  them,  lio  said,  — 

"Jnfi-dlrU  lliintmim!  nnmbie,  salee  !  To 
which  llicy  liotli  rcplieil  at  the  same  time, 
"In  nomine  frill  ri.i  FJieroiiiimi.  vale!" 

Giovan  and  Flavio  gave  the  fraternal 
kiss  to  lh(!  othei',  who,  tiirowing  his  mantli^ 
upon  the  ground,  desired  them  to  sit 
down. 

This  mysterious  |)erson  was  no  o;her 
than  the  chief  of  the  Drinkers  of  Ashes. 
liis  name  is  of  little  importance.  We  will 
only  say  that  ho  was  knoivu   among  the 

T('j)liriij)oles,  under  the  Edomiteai)pellation. 
as   S.unla.     lie   entered   at  once    into   the 

f;iibject,  as  one  who  knows   the  value  of 

time. 

"There  can  be  no  secrets  between  us," 

saiil  he  to  Giovan  :   "  here  is  Flavio ;  here 

am  I,  —  I,  who  am  come  expressly  to  know 

the  reason  why,  in  scorn  of  your  oatli,  you 

refuse  the  post  confided  to  you  ?  " 

Giovan,  in  spite  of  his  stubbornness,  knew 

himself  guiliy.     Fearing  to  liave  it  known 

that  he  repudiated  a  peril  jus   mission,  in 

order  to  remain  with  Sylvoriae,  he   com- 
menced to   excuse  himself  with  political 

reasons,  hoping  in  that  way  to  escape  the 

avowal   he  dreaded.      "Is   it   not  folly  at 

this   moment,  when   all   Europe   sleeps  in 

profound  peace,  to  arouse  a  country  where 

the  Drinkers  of  Ashes  have  met  only  do- 
feat,    since     CampancUa,   who    submitted 

seven   times   to   torture,   to   the    Bandie-i 

brothers  who  were  sliot ;  "  and  he  went  on 

more  warudy,  "I  am  resolved  as  well  as 

another  not  to  throw  away  my  life  in  a 


for  deliverance  ;  lliat  the  prqiected  expedi- 
tion is  ali^ui'd.  iuipossible ;  and  that  ihe 
best  thin'.i  to  do   is  to   al)audoii  it   at  oiicc. 


iv  d  )  we  go  to  Cala- 
bria, or  even  to  Naples?  Is  the  enemy 
we  have  sworn  to  combat  tliere  '.'  Of  what 
Use  to  decimate  our  forces,  and  reveal  our 
projects  in  badly  arranged  operations. 
The  enemy  is  not  there;  the  cneuiy  is  at 
Iliiiii'.  Once  overihiow  the  [lower  there, 
ami  all  will  liill  as  if  by  enchantmeni.  If 
you  inlend  si'riously  to  eslaiilish  liberty  in 
the  world,  destroy  the  principli^  that  is  cim- 
trary  to  it.  Begin  at  the  source  from 
which  II  iws  all  authority ;  for  where  it 
springs  Ibith,  the  world  will  go  to  drink." 

"ll'voii  knew  how  to  play  at  chess," 
responded  S.iinla,  "  you  woiilil  not  speak 
so.  To  take  the  king,  you  must  first  re- 
move all  the  pawns  that  surround  him. 
You  have  taken  the  wrou'j  way  instead  of 
the  right;  and  you  refuse  to  go,  not  only 
U'cau.so  you  judge  tin;  cxjiediiion  b.idly 
conceived,  but  because  you  are  in  love 
with  a  woman  you  have  stolen  fi-oni  Flavio, 
and  yiki  fear  to  leave  her." 

"  Has  Flavio  told  you  that?  "  cried  Gio- 
van in  fury. 

"  Rest  in  peace :  it  was  not  Flavio. 
Why  do  you  pretend  to  suspect  one  whom 
you  know  to  be  incapable  of  a  doubtful 
action?  I  am  acquainted  with  the  history 
of  both :  it  is  of  little  importance  how. 
Giovan,  all  the  wrong  pertains  to  you ;  and 
you  have  singularly  aggravated  it  in  refu.s- 
ing  the  work  that  has  the  right  to  claim 
you.  Into  what  miserable  clay  have  you 
then  been  turned,  to  let  a  woman  arrest 
you  on  the  road  to  duty !  Every  other 
object  is  absolutely  secondary  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  great  aim  wo  follow.  Each 
one  of  us  must  remember  that  he  has 
sworn  to  say  to  those  who  would  retain 
him,  'Woman,  what  is  there  in   common 


•«B^!^^S(8^^8»!»S«a»s 


.i.iunjM.iMKjmUiwJlii.ail.MWWiim'.i.iiiii-aKiwa!'- 1'  'iwnyUJi"- 


164 


THE  DR1NKEU8  OF  ASHES. 


; 


botwiHsn  thco  anil  incV  Wo  imiHt  n-miiiii 
holitiiry :  ncvur  lor'j;i't  that.  Seo  where 
that  LTeaturo  I'or  whom  you  iiro  nisane  hiis 
emuUiutL'tl  you  !  Look  at  yoursi'lf,  (iiovaii. 
You,  oiu"  man  of  action  /iiir  inxellviice,  our 
staii(l,u'il-l)earer,  have  Iweouie  more  (h'l)ili- 
tated  than  an  old  i)riL'st  who  fears  hell ! 
Soe  Flavio,  our  most  brilliant  li^^ht,  our 
projector  of  tlie  nioi>t  profounil  iileis:  what 
has  80  bewildered  and  thtrkened  his  mind 
that  lie  has  no  power  to  dincern  elearly  in 
the  midst  of  liis  troubled  thou;;ht8  V  If  you 
must  bo  children,  take  the  Bible,  and  learn 
from  it  to  recite  each  ni'^ht  before  goin^ 
to  your  beds  the  history  of  Samson  and 
Delilah,  lie  men  1  you  aro  not  made  to 
be  either  lovers  or  husbands  :  amuse  your- 
selves if  you  please ;  but,  in  the  name  of 
Heaven  I  <;ive  notliing  of  your  hearts,  noth- 
iw^  of  your  brains,  to  these  feeble  creatures. 
Do  you  know  what  you  resemble  with 
your  sad  amourelles  ?  those  tamers  of  lions 
vrht)  at  last  are  eaten  by  the  ferocious 
boasts.  Our  work  is  a  work  of  justice, 
and  remember  the  words  of  wisdom,  '  Wo- 
man is  the  desolation  of  the  just.'" 

"You  are  wrong,  S.imla!"  said  Flavio, 
in  a  grave  vo'ice  :  "  the  woman  of  whom 
you  speak  has  not  a  weak  heart.  She  was 
•with  me  at  one  time  in  Sicily,  and  she  is 
capable  of  foUowin.;  (iiovan  to  Calabria." 

"  Ah  !  she  is  a  Clorinda,  then,"  returned 
Samla,  makin;^  a  disdainful  jresture  that 
•was  lost  in  the  darkness.  "  It  may  be  that 
she  has  all  tlie.  virtues  and  all  the  charms, 
—  I  a-^ree  to  it  if  you  will ;  but  she  is  nont^ 
the  less  dangerous  to  you  both,  and  you 
know  that  wo  aro  accustomed  to  remove 
obstacles  from  our  path.  She  has  set  you 
at  variance;  and  that  is  already  a  crime  : 
we  know  how  to  prevent  her  from  commit- 
ting another.  It  is  necessary  that  the  in- 
surrection in  Calabria  have  a  chief:  Giovan 
is  designated  ;  he  would  go  if  it  were  not 
for  thit  woman  who  opposes  it." 

"  How  can  she  oppose  it? "'  said  Giovan  : 
"slio  is  in  entire  ignorai'ce  of  our  [)roject." 

"  Tlien,"  roi»lied  the  inllexible  Samla, 
"  you  rel'usc  to  go  because  of  her,  wliich 
amounts  to  the  samo :  in  any  case,  she  is 


the  obstacle.  IJe  yt^  reconciled :  it  is  ne- 
cessary, (iiovan,  '^ive  Flavio  llic  kiss  of 
peace.  Flavio,  remain  in  coiuinunicatiou 
with  {Jiovan,  in  (jrder  to  bo  ready  to  assist 
him  at  n('e(l.  That  woman  comes  between 
you  :  have  the  courage  of  great  hearts,  and 
renounce  lier.  If  you  will  not,  why,  •hen, 
remain  near  her,  but  live  united  :  that  is 
indispensable.  There  are  two  beings  iii 
yon,  never  forgot  that,  —  the  man  ami  the 
IJrinker  of  Ashes.  If  the  man  Hiillers,  it  is 
best  that  the  Drinker  of  Ashes  know  noth- 
ing of  it.  Give  the  hand  I  "  continued  he 
with  authority,  "and  swear  to  me,  who  am 
the  invested  chief,  to  live  in  friendsliip,  one 
with  the  other,  —  far  from  that  woman  or 
near  her  ;  to  cease  your  dissensions,  and  to 
act  but  lor  the  furtherance  of  our  work." 

"1  swear  it!"  said  Flavio,  grasping  the 
hand  of  Giovan.  "  I  swear  it !  "  said  Gio- 
van, "  oven  if  I  die  of  madness." 

"  Well  !  I  accept  your  i)roinise,  and  I 
know  that  you  will  keep  it.  (Jiovan,  it  is 
you  who  have  the  weak  head  in  this  matter. 
Listen  to  Flavio  :  lie  is  your  elder  ;  ami  his 
intelligence  is  greater  than  yours.  You 
have  eight  days  to  arrive  at  the  place 
designated,  to  i)Ut  yourself  at  the  head  of 
the  men  who  await  you.     Will  you  go  'I  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  (Jiovan. 

"  Flavio,"  continued  Samla,  "if,  in  eight 
days,  (iiovan  is  not  at  his  jwsit,  }0U  will 
take  liis  place,  and  march  straight  upon 
(vosenza." 

"  It  is  well,"  replied  Flavio. 

They  remained  together  until  dawn,  talk- 
ing over  their  projects,  discussing  and 
modifying  thoui  according  to  the  possible 
eventualities.  When  the  rays  of  morning 
whitened  tho  heavens,  Saiula  arose,  and 
embraced  his  two  friends.  "  It  is  well ! " 
he  said  to  them.  "  You  can  be  men  in  your 
spare  moments;  but,  before  all,  you  are 
Drinkers  of  Ashes." 

"  Yes  ;  and  God  guide  us  I "  responded 
Giovan  and  Flavio. 

S.imla  gave  a  vigorous  whistle,  the  boat 
re-appeared,  ho  sprang  in,  and  soon  it  was 
lost  to  sight  on  the  coast  of  Commacchio. 

Giovan  was  much  softened  toward  Flavio: 


I 


infili'il :  if  in  nu- 
liivio  lilt'  kiss  of 

I  I'oiiiiniiiiiiMtioii 
ic  ri!ii(ly  ti)  assist 

111  t'OlllL'S  Im'IWI'I'II 

i;reiit  in'iil'ts,  iiml 

II  not,  "liy,  'iii'ii, 
uniU'il :    tliiit  ia 

L"    two     Ih'IiI^S     ill 

:he  nuin  anil  tliu 
man  siiU'i'rs,  it  is 
Ulii's  know  iiulli- 
I"  eoiiliiiiii.'(l  liu 
ir  ti)  111!',  wlio  iuu 
in  Irioiiilslii]),  one 
»  lliitt  woman  or 
issensions,  am)  to 
I  of  our  work." 
vio,  <;rasi)'M);^  tlio 
ir  it !  "  said  Gio- 
Iness." 

■  i)roinist',  and  I 
it.  (liovan,  it  is 
lad  in  tliis  iiiattur. 
iir  elder;  and  his 
lan  yours.  You 
vu  at  tlic  place 
f  at  tlie  head  of 
Will  you  go?" 

nila,  "  if,  in  eight 
is  jx)st,  >ou  will 
.•h  straight   upon 

ivio. 

•  until  dawn,  talk- 
disuussiiig  and 
5  to  the  possible 
rays  of  morning 
samla  arose,  and 
s.  "  It  is  well ! " 
vn  be  men  in  your 
lore   all,  you   are 

)   us  I"  responded 

1  whistle,  the  boat 
,  and  soon  it  was 
of  Commacchio. 
itid  toward  Flavio: 


•■» 


BYLVRUIKE. 


166 


the  memory  of  hi«  old  friendship  filled  his 
heart,  and  excluded  all  anger;  still,  he 
was  distracted  l>y  sorrowful  contradictions. 
At  that  moment,  moved  liy  the  stern 
autluiiity  of  Samla,  ho  was  decideil  to  go. 
Hut  he  knew  himself,  and  lie  feared  his 
resciliitiiin  might  aliandon  hiiii  at  the  last. 
Besides,  the  idea  of  leaving  Sylveriiie,  and 
of  leaving  her  with  I'Mavio,  was  insiipport- 
ahle.  "If  I  go,"' though,  he,  "she  must 
leave  Ilayenna."  Neverthe';'ss,  he  wished 
to  perform  an  act  of  courage  and  self-abne- 
gation ;  yet  it  was  not  without  an  ellbrt  over 
himself,  that  he  said  to  Flavio,  betbre  leav- 
ing him,"  Let  us  pass  the  evening  together 
with  Sylverine." 

"  We  will,"  replied  Flavio.  "  Samla  is 
right ;  a  woman  must  not  come  between  us." 

That  evening  they  met  at  the  house  of 
Sylverine.  She,  happy  to  see  Flavio,  and 
hoping  that  all  dissensions  were  ended  (br- 
cver,  abandoned  herself  to  the  joy  that 
reconciliation  (^ivuscd.  Hut  there  occurred 
what  neither  of  them  expected:  inasmuch 
as  they  regained  their  (iirmer  intimacy,  the 
old  contradielions  filleii  each  heart.  Syl- 
verine, more  in  doubt  than  ever  of  herself, 
fell  into  an  interior  contemplation,  while 
she  tried  to  decide  which  of  the?e  two  men 
she  loved  the  best. 

Very  soon  Giovan  felt  his  anger  and  jeal- 
ousy ready  to  burst  all  bounds :  he  made 
of  Flavio  a  redoubtable  rival,  whom  he 
feared  would  displace  him  in  the  heart  of 
Sylverine. 

.As  to  Flavio,  a  nameless  sadness  over- 
wlielmed  him  when  he  found  himself  sitting 
in  the  place  where  he  had  passed  so  many 
happy  evenings  near  tho  woman  whom 
ho  adored  and  regretted  always,  and 
whom,  in  spite  ot  his  disappointment,  he 
could  never  entirely  and  hopelessly  resign. 
Then  there  arose  in  his  heart  sentiments, 
not  unknown,  but  severely  restrained  until 
that  hour.  He  regarded  Giovan  with  envy ; 
he  accused  him ;  he  forgot  the  tacit  pardon 
he  had  pronounced ;  he  retracted,  one 
might  iay,  his  indulgence,  and  repeated 
olteu  to  himself,  "  It  is  too  much  1  It  is 
more  than  I  can  bear  1 " 


They  talkoil,  nevertiielenn,  all  three,  — 
Sylverine  with  a  tlirced  abandon  that  de- 
ceived no  one,  (iiovaii  with  a  scarcely  dis- 
simulated viiilenee,  Flavio  with  a  gravity 
that  resembled  despair.  The  hours  passed 
away  ;  midnight  had  long  since  Hounded ; 
but  m'ither  seemecl  to  think  of  retiring, 
Sylverine,  who  understood  plainly  what  was 
passing  within  them,  was  more  llattered 
than  disturbed ;  for  she  well  knew  they 
remained  in  her  presence  less  to  be  togeth- 
er, than  to  watch  and  guard  her. 

At  last  Sylverine  arose,  and,  extending 
a  hand  to  each,  she  said  "  Good-night." 

'Ilio  two  men  clasped  her  hands  with 
apparent  calmness,  and  then  went  away 
together.  For  a  long  time  they  walked 
side  by  side  without  speaking.  Flavio 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  "  1  can- 
not endure  this,"  he  said  :  "  I  was  wrong  to 
accompany  thee  to  the  house  of  Sylverine. 
I  telt  all  my  old  tenderness  spring  to  lite 
within  me.  I  have  been  jealous  of  thee, 
and  I  suH'ered  to  see  thee  near  her." 

"  Thou  art  right,"  replied  (Jiovan  :  "  the 
situation  is  intolerable  ;  there  will  be  no 
repose  until  one  of  us  is  far  from  her." 

"  It  must  be  ended  :  one  of  us  must  make 
the  sacrifice." 

'•  Which '{ "  demanded  Giovan  with 
terror. 

Flavio  did  not  reply  :  they  walked  on  in 
silence,  crushing  beneath  their  icet  the  pine 
cones  that  had  fiillen  from  the  trees.  'I'he 
sun  appeared  above  the  horizon  :  the  city 
was  awake.  They  passed  women  and 
chilflren  gathering  dead  wood  in  the  forest. 
Flavio  stopped  to  look  at  them  :  seeing  tho 
misery  that  had  no  other  care  than  the  hard 
occupation  to  gain  their  daily  bread,  a  feel- 
ing of  envy  passed  through  his  heart,  and 
lie  cried,  "  Ah  ho..'  happy  they  are  1 " 

Then  he  shook  offhis  reverie ;  and, turning 
to  Giovan,  he  said,  "  It  is  necessary  that  one 
of  us  should  go  to  Calabria,  Thou  lovest  Syl- 
verine, and  thou  dost  not  wish  to  leave  her : 
I  love  her,  and  I  have  the  right  to  remain, 
But  that  is  of  little  importance :  we  alone  are 
the  judges  of  our  rights  and  duties.  If  we 
go  to  her  and  interrogate  her  again,  she 


niw 


160 


THR  imiNKKUS  OF    \HHK8. 


will  ri'ply  as  lii-Corc, '  I  l"V«  yoti  1m. th.'  aivl 
we  will  Hiiik  Mtii-w  iiit.i  llif  itiimt'  iiiisiTV. 
Let  liitf  (li'iiili-  lii'twfcn  iih.  My  lU'ar 
(JidVMii,  wilt  llioii  fon.ciit  to  it?  " 

"  1  will,"  rcplii'il  Ciioviin.  "  Ah.  llii^  i* 
tcvrll.l.'  I  " 

•■  Whit  fJoil  ilix'^  is  wi'll  ilimc,"  <on- 
tiuiuid  Flavid.  "  This  cvfiiinv'  wcwiU  ■;<> 
tDiii'thcr  to  Sylverine  ;  iind  tin-  ono  to  whom 
»ln'  iul.lrcsM's  till'  first  woril  will  tfiivc  to- 
morrow Ibi-  Calahriii.  Wilt  thou  liiivu  it 
no?" 

"  Yes,"  rcl>lit'il  (]ioviin. 
Thry    imssc'l    thu    (liy   to'j;clluT    at   tllf 
house  of  Fl.ivio,  who  instructfil  his  iriciul  in 
all  till'    lnrpariMl    projects,   iiidieiniiv^    the 
point  in  till'  (Julf  of  Taiviila  where  they 
were  to  eiubaik,  explainiii  j  to  him  what  re- 
Bourees  lie  eonld  count  upon,  ami  where  the 
luom'y  anil    anus  were.     When  the  ni'jht 
hail  fome,  there  was  nothing  mmv  to  le.ivn. 
They  went  out  to'j;ether :  the  nioinent  was 
grnvc.      The   Benteme    that    fate     slioulil 
pronounee  upon  them    Kfi    ihein    little    to 
hope.     'I'he  one  who  went  woulil  iloubtless 
find  death  in  his  adventure.     In  any  case, 
dhl  he  not  renoiinee  her  he  loved  V 

When  they  reached  the  door,  they 
stopped  and  wrun;,'  each  other's  hands  with 
force.  "  Coiira;4e  ! "  they  said  in  the  same 
breath,  as  il  ihey  were  in  the  face  of  an  inev- 
itable ilan|,'er. 

•'  Good-evening  to  both,"  said  Sylverine, 

as  they  entered. 

They  rei)lied  to  her  by  a  sign  of  the  head, 
and  sat  down. 

She  was  emb'-oidering  a  p-"ce  of  dainty 
nlu^lin,  and,  without  raising  her  eyes,  eon- 
tinued,  '•  Why  havi;  you  i>ot  been  to  see  me 
through  the  day  ?  " 

Neither  rejilied.  Astonished  at  their 
silence,  s-ho  regarded  alternately  Giovan 
ftiid-Flavio;  and,  noticing  their  jjallor,  she 
said,  "What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 
Then,  not  obtaining  any  reply,  she  cried, 
"In     the    name    of    Heaven!     are     you 

dumbV" 

Both  turned  their  heads,  as  if  to  evade  a 
direct  (luestion.  Then  she  arose,  went  to 
Flavio,  and,  taking  his  hand,  said,  "  See 


rnv  Flavio,  I  havo  rwiragc,     Answer  jno. 
Wliv  do  yon  not  speak?  " 

FlavioU'lt  iiponhii  fiieo  that  iinpereep- 
tilile  moisture  which  is  the  dew  of  violent 
emotion,  as  he  rcplicl  in  achoked  voice,  "  A 
inoveinoiitis  ])repared  at  Cosen/.a  ;  one  ol 
us  must  go  and  take  the  direction." 

"  Which  will  go  V  "  cried  she  ;  "  for  I  nhall 
go  with  him." 

"  What  lolly  !  "  said  Flav>  ..  "  There  will 
be  innumerable  fatigues  to  support.  I  will 
not  have  ihee  go." 

'•  I  wi>h  to  go,  and  1  will  jio."  reiilicd 
Svlverine.  •'  You  have  seen  me  in  the 
work,  and  you  know  what  I  can  do.  It  is 
decided  :  I  shall  go.  Is  it  thee,  (Tiovan  V  la 
it  thee,  Flavio." 

(iiovaii  bowed  his  head,  wilhoiit  daring 
to  reply.  Flavio  made  a  sU|)reineelVorl,  and 
said,  "  It  is  Giovan  :  he  will  leave  in  a 
month." 

(jiovan  remained  immovable,  as  if 
crushed  upon  his  chai'-.  Sylverine  put  her 
hand  upon  his  head.  "  I  will  .^o  with  thee, 
my  p(,,a- Giovan."  she  ^aid;  "  and  thou  shalt 
see  that  I  am  not  a  had  companion." 

"Yes,"  added  Flavio,  coniinuing  his 
thou'ilits  :  "  (Jiovan  will  leave  in  a  moii;li: 
the  expeilition  will  be  short,  and  there  aro 
chances  of  success.  If  all  goes  well,  I  will 
join  you;  but  at  present  I  have  no  time  to 
lose,  li)r  I  must  [irepare  all.  I  leave  tomor- 
row fur  the  coast  of  Tuscany  lo  or.;.inize  a 
navy,  and  to  make  the  last  arrangemcutB. 
When  all  is  finished  I  will  return  here,  and 
Giovan  will  leave." 

A  susi>ieion  crossed  the  mind  of  Sylver- 
ine :  she  looked  Flavio  fixedly  in  the  iiice, 
and  said,  "Thou  dost  not  deceive  meV 
Thou  wilt  go  away  for  a  month,  and  atVer 
return  here  Y " 

"Have  I  ever  deceived  theeV"  replied 
Flavio,  lowering  his  eyes. 

Giovan  arose  as  if  to  speak ;  but,  wanting 
1  coura'ie,  sat  down   without   a  word.     His 
heart  was  full  of  pity  for  Flavio.    "  Wretch 
that  I  am  1  "  he  sighed. 

They  passed  a  part  of  the  night  in  talk- 
ing of  the  projected  expedition.  Sylver- 
ine, delighted  to  leav«  her  monotonous  life, 


•mm*- 


Au.twci'  mo. 

hat  Impi'iTc-p- 

li'W  of  violfiit 

)kc(l  voict", "  A 

»i'i\/.ii ;  Dili:  of 

crioii." 

lio  ;  "  for  I  hIijiU 

,.  "  Th.n'  will 
iiipport.     I  will 

ill  i;o,"  ri'ijlii'tl 

•\'n    WW   ill  till! 

can  tlo.     It  is 

u'l',  (tii)vanV  Is 

witliimt  duiiii'^ 
)riMii('  clVoi'l,  ;inil 
,vill    Kmvi!    in   ii 

novnUlc,  iis  if 
lylvi'i'iiic  pill  Iilt 
vill  i^o  witli  ilii'L', 

"  iinil  thou  ."halt 
inpaiiion," 

coniinuiim  his 
avi!  in  a  month: 
•t,  an<l  thiTu  aro 

jiOi'S  well,  I  will 

have  no  tiinu  to 

Heave  to- nioi-- 

ny  lo  oi"i.iiii/e  a 

ist  arrangement*. 

return  hero,  and 

miiiil  of  Sylver- 
iceilly  in  the  I'ace, 
not   deceive   me? 

month,  and  after 

d  theeV"  replied 

eak;  but,  wanting 
)ut  a  word.  His 
Flavio.    "  Wretch 

the  nii^ht  in  talk- 
])edition.  S\'h",r- 
•r  monotonous  life, 


SYLVKIUNK. 


107 


olapprd  her  hands,  hui^thed,  and   said  to  i  wiitcheil  it  diuMppear,  dreamily  roek.d  hv 


liie  iiiciiiotdiKPils  iiioliiiii.  An  aliy^  ol  Kor- 
row  (teemed  to  open  liefore  him.  Hi-*  heart 
notK-ned,  and  he  wept  freely.  Two  limirs 
after  lii(t  departiir.,  tin- fori'st  of  It.ivcnnii 
—  that  tltiest  that  threw  its  shadow  over 
all  he  liived  —  appeared  to  him  a  warco 
preceplilile  line,  iilixni'e,  and  nearly  con- 
loiindi  d  wiih  the  heavens. 

Sylverine  was  very  nad  after  the  depart- 
ure of  I'Mavio.     She  snllered  ii  va'.'iie   in- 
(liiietilde    that    (iiovan    had    no    power    to 
relieve;  for  he  was  liimself  the  jirey  lo  con- 
tinual aniiiish.     His  reason,  firm  and  clear 
when   iJasKJon  did  not  hlind  him.  chowed 
him  to  what  an  extent  his  selli>hiie'<s  liad 
made  him  c  iminal.     'I'o   console  hiim-elf, 
and   to  drive  away  his  own  remorse,  he 
often  rejieated,  thai,  if  the  expedition  suc- 
ceeded, all   the  jjiloiy  woulil  appertain  to 
Flavio  :  yet  he  could  not  re-assuie  himself 
with  such  a   reason;  for  he  knew,  belter 
than  any  erne,  with  how  miieli  danu'er  such 
a  veiiliire  was   menaeed.     Ho  lell  into  a 
deep  melancholy;  and  he,  usually  so  ex- 
pansive, kept   Ion;;  and  profound  silences, 
from  which  it  was  impossible  to  arouse  him. 
At  any  price,  he  would  not  leave  Sylverine; 
and  yet  he  wished  to  he  with  Flavio.     The 
thou^lht  of  his  absent  friend  ])ossessed  him  : 
ho   could   not   drive   him   from   his  mind. 
This  pertinacity  wearied  and  irritated  liiin 
b«yond   measure.     He  thoie.'ht  of  him,  a 
dij'esa  lit  Deo  !  perche  pur  glacif '  (O  justice  j  fii;;itive   upon    the    mountains  ;    living'   at 
of     Ciod  1    why    dost    thou    sleep  V)     He  |  ha/.ard,  from  the  water  sources   and  wild 

fruits;  repulsed  by  the  shepherds  from 
whom  he  demanded  shelter ;  tracked  as  a 
lerocious  beast  by  the  peasants  armed  with 


Giovan,  "  Thou  wilt  see  Imw  well  I   march, 
BmI  that  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  carbines." 
The    two   frienils   went   away  to;»ether. 
"  ,\li !     what     hast     thou     done  Y  "     said 
Giovan. 

"  That  which  was  ii;;reed  upon.  He  to 
whom  she  spoke  the  (irst,  was  he  not  tofioV 
and  what  woiildst  tlinu  think  of  me,  if  I 
•hould  take  her  with  meY" 

III  the  nioriiin',' Flavio  went  to  say  adieu 
to  Sylverine  :  he  had  the  couiay;e  not  lo 
appear  moved,  though  his  heart  was  torn 
within  him. 

"  in  three  weeks  at  the  latest,  1  will  re- 
turn." be  siud. 

(iiovan  and  Flavio  had  a  last  conlerence. 
At  the  moment  of  separation,  perhaps 
never  tomeet  a;,'ain,  Oiovan's  compunctions 
overcame  liim.  "Stay!"  cried  he:  "it  is 
1  who  on-.'bt  to  go;  ami  I  will  not  accejit 
tliy  sairiiice  1  " 

"  It  is  my  destiny,"  replied  Flavio.  "  I 
never  return  when  the  route  is  once  taken. 
I  leave  .Sylverine  to  thee.  Adieu,  brother, 
and  be  liapjiy. " 

"If  thou  need  inc,  send,  and  I  will 
come,"  said  (iiovan.  "  What  shall  bo  the 
word  if  thou  .-end  an  emissary  ?  " 

Flavio  extended  his  hand  toward  the 
table,  and  took  therefrom  a  volume  of 
Dante.  He  opened  it,  and  read  a  verse  of 
the  twentv-ninth  song  of  the  PurUlko.    "  '  0 


who  comes  from  me  shall  repeat  the  first 
part  of  the  verse,  and  thou  shalt  repeat  the 
second." 

They  embraced  each  other.  "If  thou 
die,"  said  Giovan,  "  it  is  I  who  have  killed 
thee." 

"  Rest  in  peace,"  replied  Flavio.  "  Is  not 
destiny  the  mistress  of  all  V  lleturn  to 
Sylverine,  and  leave  me  .-vlone  ;  for  I  need 
strength.     God  bless  thee  I  " 

"  And  thee  al.-o  1 " 

After  they  parted,  Flavio  hastened 
toward  the  shore.  A  boat  awaited  him : 
lie  went  on  board,  they  raised  the  sails, 
and  swiftly  left   the   coast    behind.     He 


scythes;  sold  by  his  host  of  an  hour; 
arresteil,  imprisoned,  condemned,  hung. 
All  this  tortured  him  until  ho  yielded  to  his 
anguish,  and,  making  that  sellish  return 
u])on  himself  that  we  all  make  when  we 
sull'er  a  merited  misfortune,  he  would  cry, 
"Am  I  not  unhappy  enough  ?  "  He  could 
not  remain  (piiet  in  any  place ;  repose  was 
odious  to  him  ;  he  went  out,  he  returned,  ho 
was  restless  in  his  inaction ;  he  wished  to 
go,  and  yet  he  remained.  Ho  lieaped 
strange    reproaches    upon    Sylverine,    of 


ii.mjwMWi"*uii«wi<Liw»imi'.i*i-'i 


: 

I 
I 


108 


Tin:  DIIINKKUS  or  ASHES. 


which  nho  iimltTntoiiil  nolhin;,'.  Olh-ii  lie 
wuiit  tu  llic  «hiirc,  ami  icmiiiui'il  ihi-ro  Iciii,' 
hour*,  Iciokiii;;  towiinl  tho  itoiith,  im  if  mmw 
hrco/.c  ('inti'm'i  t'lDiii  Caliil)ri;i  foiilil  toll  him 
Ol'  tllC  lUlC  1)1'  lii^  iViciicl. 

Mori!  limn  liiroo  vn-vkn  liml  panrtcii,  und 
Sjlvi'iiiiu  jirt'w  unxiim-*.  "  It  is  Hiniiii^c," 
»ui<l  flif  III  Oloviui,  "llmt  WD  i-ucuivo  nu 
ni'WH  ol'  Kliivio." 

lie  Iti'w  into  ft  |)ftsnion  to  cviidu  ft  n'\i\y. 
At  liiht,  to  ciilia  liiiii,  Sylvcriiio  npolvu  of 
tlii'ir  projiM'iutl  i'X|)(!iliiion,  in  wliicii  Mii- 
conntcd  to  a(.'com|iany  liiiu.  "  WIk.'H  will 
wo  UmvoV"  she  iii(|iiiri'.l. 

(iiov.iii  could  contain  hiniMi'lf  no  lon'.'<'rJ 
ho  nir-hod  I'loni  the  houno,  and  clio  Haw  liini 
no  moro  tliat  diiy. 

"What  have  I  done,  that  ho.ftvoidn  mo 
in  lliirt  manner '.•"•  She  iamnined  thiit 
Flftvio  liad  Homothin;;  to  do  with  ihe  troii- 
l.le  of  {;iovaii ;  l)nt  hIio  conchided  it  wan 
ft  new  lit  of  jealou.ty,  ftnd  so  did  not  sus- 
pect the  truth. 

Travelleis  wlio  passed  thron!;h  Italy  at 
tlie  epoch  of  our  story  will  easily  believe 
that  an  insurrection  could  liavo  taken  jilaee 
in  Calahria,  ami  the  neii;hl)orin|4  I'rovinces 
know  nolhinif  of  it  fur  some  time.  In 
ell'ecl,  the  journals  were  mute,  the  ])oliee 
exorcised  a  pitiless  inspection.  The  post 
had  no  respect  lor  iho  secrets  of  letters, 
and  they  arrested  without  mercy  the 
bearers  of  evil  tidin;?s.  One  can  under- 
stand very  easily  the  radical  alisenco  of  com- 
munication, when  it  is  reinemherod,  that  in 
H,  nu)re  recent  epoch,  durin;;;  the  war  of  the 
Crimen,  the  ojjlcial  Gazelle,  of  the  king- 
dom of  Ihe  Two  Sicilies,  the  only  journal 
then  in  all  the  Neai)olilan  provinces,  pub- 
lished not  one  lino  that  could  lead  any  one 
•o  suppose  that  a  Ion;;  war  in  which  live 
powers  took  part,  one  of  which  was  Italian, 
was  then  occnrrin;;  in  the  EJlst. 

Calabria   luul   been  a^ritated  some  days 
before  Ravenna  knew  any  thin^i  of  it:  at 
,     last,  a  coast  in;;  vessel  comin;;  from  Brin- 
di?i  brou^iht  the  news,  which  soon   circu- 
lated, and  incresisod  in  spreading. 

One   mornin:^   a   servniit   of  Sylverine, 
•    who  had  just  returned  from  the  town,  en- 


tered llm  room  of  her  mWtre^n,  and  »aiiJ, 
••  .Si.;uora,  do  you  know  that  ile'y  aro 
fiijhtin.;  in  C.ilabria  uinl  tlio  l)order  of 
Ci>sen/a  'I " 

It  wan  ft  llmli  of  ll'^ht  to  Hylvertno :  kUo 
understood  all.  While  she  clrl'■^^el|  in  iLUte, 
the  servant  told  her  what  she  had  learmd. 
That  thu  insur;{ent»  had  been  beaten  by 
the  royal  triHips;  thiit  the  chief  hid  lieeu 
taken  ;  that  ho  was  a  very  brave  and  hand- 
some man ;  and  that  he  had  been  sent  to 
Naples,  to  bo  sentenced  and  exeeiilecl. 

Sylverine  made  no  ri'ply;  but,  from  liino 

to  time,  she  moaned,  •'  My  (Jod  I  my  (iud  1 " 

Then  sill)  ran  wildly  to  the  bouse  of  (Jio- 

van.     As  soon  as  she  saw  him,  she  cried, 

'•  Wretch  I  where  is  Flavio  't  " 

He  trembled  out  an  evasive  reply. 

"  Ilu>h  I  "  rospondi'd    she   with    pission. 

"  I  know  all.     Thou  art  a  coward  1     Thy 

place  is  at  his  side,     lie  is  in  Calabria: 
I  p 

what  ait  thou  doin;;  here  '.'  " 

(iiovan  threw  himself  at  her  feet. 
"  Crush  me,"  he  said  :  '•  I  deserve  thy  con- 
tempt ;  but  I  love  thee ;  I  adoro  thee ;  and  I 
could  not  resolve  to  leave  thee.  We  letl 
it  to  chance,  my  Sylverine;  Flavio  lost, 
and  therefore  ho  went."  Ho  then  recount- 
ed all  their  stru^r^^le  ;  the  visit  of  Samla, 
their  last  resolution,  and  the  departure  of 
Flavio.  He  wept  bitterly.  "  Ah !  I 
know  loo  well  that  1  merit  neither  compas- 
sion nor  i)ardoii ;  but  thou  hast  made  mo 
insane ;  and,  tor  love  of  thee,  I  know  not 
what  crime  I  would  not  eounnit." 

"  '^'hey  say  that  ihey  are  defeated,  that 
he  is  taken,"  cried  Sylverine.  "  Our  place 
is  where  he  sull'ers.  He  is  our  Flavio  :  wo 
must  save  him.  All  this  news  may  be  ex- 
an'iorated,  —  who  knows  the  truth  in  this 
country  of  falsehood '?  L'.'t  us  go  at  once  : 
[)erhaps  there  is  yet  time." 

"  Yes,  we  will  go.  If  I  perish,  I  will  go 
straight  to  him.  In  an  hour  I  am  ready. 
We  will  go  direct  to  Leghorn  :  there  1  will 
take  a  boat  that  will  carry  us  to  Tola.  It 
is  the  shortest  route,  and  the  most  sure." 

"  If  we  do  not  save  him,"  said  Sylverine, 
—  "listen  well  to  my  words,  Giovan,  —  I 
will  never  see  thy  face  again  in  all  my  lil'e." 


'm 


iotri'im,  aixl  miiil, 
r  til, it  ilii'y  iiro 
I    till)    l)i)rili'r   of 

to  Hylvi-rlno  :  nho 
iilri'XM'd  ill  ll;l!<t(', 

nIiu  liail  Icai'iii'il. 
I  liwm  iM'iitL'ii  by 

(•    cllil't'   lll'l    lll'CIl 

V  lir.ivit  ami  liaml- 
iiad  lii'i'ii    trnt  to 

■  III    I'XCl'lltcll. 

\y\  lull,  Irom  lime 
f  (juil !  iiiy  G<»il  I " 

In)    lloUKi!   of   (iio- 

.w  liiiii,  hUu  eriuJ, 
io  ■/  " 

aAvu  reply, 
sliu   with    pission. 
II  cowan  1 1     Thy 

u  Ih  ill  Calabria : 
,  ■) « 

■It'  nt  Ikt  foot. 
I  dosoi'vt!  thy  coii- 

adore  tlicu ;  mid  I 
vt)  ihco.  Wo  lotl 
riiu! :    Flavid  lost, 

llo  thon  roooimt- 
u!  visit  of  Sainia, 

tho  (lo|)artiiro  of 
tterly.  "  Ah  I  I 
rit  lU'iihor  coiiijias- 
011  hast  iiiado  me 

thoo,  1  know  not 
uoniinit." 

nro  dofuatod,  that 
iriiie.  "  Our  plaoe 
I  is  our  Flavio :  wo 
I  nuws  may  bo  ex- 
s  the  truth  in  lliia 
L'.'t  us  150  at  onoo  : 
0." 

'  I  porish,  I  will  go 
I  hour  I  am  ready, 
i^horn  :  there  1  will 
rry  us  to  I'ola.  It 
1  the  most  sure." 
lUi,"  said  Sylverine, 
words,  (iiovaii,  —  I 
ijjaiu  in  all  my  life." 


SVr.VKRINE. 


109 


Thoy  wore  Hoparatiii;;  to  hasten  their 
depart iiro,  when  humio  oiiu  knoekud  at  thu 
door,  (iiovnn  opciieil  it,  ami  timnd  hiin- 
Belf  fai'o  to  lace  with  a  man  dresseil  us  a 
■ailor. 

"  (Jiovan  Seo^liaV"  impiired  tho  man. 

*'  I  am  he,"  replied  (iiovan. 

"  O  ilij'r.id  iti  JJeo!"inin[  tho  itrangur, 
in  a  low  voiee. 

"  I'enlm  pur  ijiiwi  f  "  responded  Glovnu  ; 
then,  tiiriiiiig  to  Svlvurinu,  hu  cried,  "  News 
of  Flavio." 

The  man  took  olT  oao  of  \\\a  heavy 
shoes;  anil,  t(e[iaratin'^  tlio  sole  with  the  aid 
of  his  knil'e,  he  drew  from  it  a  sealeil  letter, 
whieh  lie  ){avo  to  (iiovan.  Ho  broke  tho 
8oal :  the  envelope  contained  a  letter  lor 
Sylveiiiie,  and  a  note  l()r  himself.  The  note 
comprised  but  tliroe  words,  "  All  is  lost  I  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  stupor  :  (Iiovan 
and  Sylverim^  lo'iked  at  eacli  other  iii  si- 
lence, Tho  man  hid  seated  himself,  and 
was  trying  to  repair  his  shoe. 

"  llead  thou  (piickly  I  "  cried  Giovan, 
wlio  was  the  lirst  to  recover  himself. 
Instinctively,  Sylverino  regarded  tho  un- 
known, who  understood  hor  look  of  dis- 
trust. 

"  Aht  am  I  a  restraint?  "  said  he.  "It 
is  not  eight  days  since  I  was  assistant 
jailer  at  tlie  |)rison  of  Cosenza.  I  know 
all  the  history:  you  can  speak  boiiire  nie 
without  fear," 

Sylverino  opened  Flavio's  letter,  and 
read,  — 

"  I  have  deceived  thee;  but  pardon  mo, 
my  darling  child  I  Giovan  will  tell  to  thoo 
all  our  sad  history ;  and  thou  wilt  see  that 
I  could  not  do  otherwise  than  hide  from 
thee  tho  end  of  my  journey.  I  knew  too 
well  tho  courage  of  thy  heart  I  I  know 
that  thou  wouldst  accompany  me,  if  thou 
knowost  to  what  destiny  I  inarched  ;  and 
that  could  not  be.  One  of  us  must  lose 
thee.  I  accepted  the  will  of  fate,  and  I  loll 
thee.  But  why  complain?  There  is  in 
all  this  a  profound  wisdom,  before  which  I 
am  constrained  to  bow.  Each  man,  in  this 
life,  has  his  share  of  hajipiness.  Thou  wort 
mine :  could  I,  then,  [lossess  thee  always  ? 


I  Alan  I   no:   the  laws  of  Gml  ndmit  of  no 

{exception;   and   I   would  be   iiii.;riiti-l'ul    to 

I  aeeu^e  de<liliy.      I  lo<t  thee  vvIumi  llic   hour 

to  lo.se  thee  sound' 'd  ;    but    still    I   have    lor 

thee   a   tenderness    without   equal,  and    in 

my    heart    there    is    iiotlihi'^'   fiir  tlice   but 

ihiiilglits  ijif  inlillite  sweettii'ss.      AluHo   all, 

do  not  w?[>r(i  !■  \\  1  hsH'W.     Wi'  are  of  those 

who   Jiitii     ...irn    for   tjfe-feat.     I  obeyed    my 

jdesilny:  ttnoii  i\;»>rt  thu  i«iii»tr«.inient,  that  in 

all.     Tli'm  ;\i»  innocwnt,  uiidl  never  aeeiiso 

tliyseli. 

"  It  is  the  prison  of  C<*»en«n  from  which 
I  write.  I  iiave  Uien  liit»>«<  "(tir  tlircf  dii\s, 
under  a  rigomii*  jfUjiT'l,  in  i.»  true;  liui  they 
leave  me,  mnui'jlwliiiii.  nibi>  possibility  of 
wriling.  and  endlinjf  to  t^tiftr  my  last  adieu. 
All  is  liiiislved  !  [  ain  noit  tho  man  to  bo 
allured  by  vain  hopes.  I  know  my  diiy.i 
are  eoiinted,  and  the  I.lsI  will  bo  welcome. 
■' I'erhiips,  by  giviii'j;  niiuh  trouble,  and 
compromising  many  [joople,  1  might  f;ain 
my  liberty;  but  of  what  good  t.)  rerom- 
meiico  my  life  of  other  times?  to  renew 
that  enervating  struggle  in  which  I  have 
always  been  defeated?  to  roll  a'^ain  the 
rock  of  Sysi|)lius,  tiiat  always  and  always 
returns?  No:  I  am  weary,  and  I  need  rest. 
Dost  thou  remember  the  words  ot' Luther, 
when  ho  looked  uiion  tho  tombs  in  the 
cemetery  (jf  Worms,  '  I  envy  them,  l)ecauso 
they  repose.'  Thanks  be  to  God  !  1  i-liall 
soon  have  nothing  to  envy  tlieiii.  lie 
calm,  Sylverine:  and,  (iiov/in,  de.s|)air  not. 
I  am  the  eldest :  I  must  have  gone  lirst ;  so 
it  is  but  ai<ling  nature  a  little,  and  that  is 
not  a  s;iH'at  evil.  And  neverihidess,  as  thy 
poor  Flavio  loved  thee;  as  he  would  joy- 
ously have  given  his  life  for  thee ;  as  he 
rested  in  confidence,  —  and  what  a  hard 
awakening  thou  didst  prepare  fijr  him  I  — 
in  short,  in  short, —  I  will  speak  no  iiioro 
of  that :  of  what  good  to  reflect  ?  Are  wo 
not  already  unhajjpy  enough  ?  I  know 
thou  wilt  never  forget  me,  and  that  thought 
consoles  nie. 

"Take  every  precaution  at  Ravenna. 
It  is  possible  some  one  may  discover  a 
thread  that  will  lead  to  you  :  that  would 
astonish   me   nevertlieloss,  lor  who  knows 


170 


THE  DUISiCEBS  OP  ASHE3. 


our  secret?  Myself  only  hero;  ami  I 
need  not  say,  tliiit  never  mine  of  a  ser:i;,'lio 
was  more  impenetrable  than  I.  MyJu(l;^eH 
are  exasperated  to  sec  me  so  indiil'erent. 
Yesterday,  after  my  exandnation,  the  ])res- 
ident  of  the  eourt-niarlial  eame  into  my 
chand)er,  and  there  mysteriously  oilered 
me  a  lart,'(!  sum  of  money  if  I  would  expose 
to  him  the  true  euljjrits.  '  For,'  said  he,  '  I 
see  in  you  hut  a  passive  instrument  saeri- 
ficed  to  the  aud)itioa  of  others.'  I  iuiniedi- 
atelv  named  to  him  Kin-j;  Ferdinand  and 
all  his  ministers.  That  tolly  has  cost  me 
a  new  auuoyanei!.  Last  n>i;ht  I  was  given 
for  my  supper  dry  bread  and  water,  like  a 
scholar  who  has  not  learned  his  lesson. 
All  this  is  very  pitiful,  AVhen  I  see  l)y 
V'hat  means  these  men  are  governed,  in 
what  subjection  thiy  iire  kept,  and  with 
what  arguments  they  ure  satisfied,  I  ask 
myself  by  what  irony  God  has  endowed 
such  aiumals  with  si)eeeh?  bjinetimes 
we  imagine  naturally  that  humanity  aspires 
to  the  light;  but  the  greater  part  of  men, 
wallowing  iu.-eiisibly  in  their  viee  and 
i^niorauee,  return  to  it  eag(!rly,  if,  by 
chance,  they  have  been  rescued  from  it  for 
a  while.  God  lias  made  man  of  clay,  and 
he  forgets  not  his  origin.  I  may  be  unjust : 
but  these  dregs  of  humanity  stir  my  soul 
with  indignation. 

"  In  our  first  engagement,  we  were  very 
few.  ^V'e  had  tlefeated  the  royal  troops, 
who  flew  at  our  attack  like  a  flock  of 
pigeons,  and  marched  straiglit  upon  Coseti- 
za ;  but  they  were  not  long  in  discovering 
the  nuaibin'  of  our  forces,  and  consequently 
our  weakness.  We  were  surroimded  and 
overwhelmed,  but  died  bravely,  shouting, 
'  Vim  Italia  !  '  I  had  forceil  a  passage,  at 
the  head  of  fifty  men,  by  which  we  gained 
the  moimtains,  directing  our  march  towards 
Poliehoi'o,  where  we  hoped  to  embark  ;  but 
enraged  wolves  were  never  hunted  as  wo 
were.  Day  and  night  we  were  on  the 
alert;  but  we  were  captiu'cd,  and,  conse- 
quently, we  were  criminals.  It  was  then 
natural  that  each  one  should  turn  against 
us.  A  band  of  peasants  and  (jemlurmes 
ariested  ns.     I  believed  that  I  had  already 


drunk  all  the  bitterness  of  life ;  but  I  was 
mistaken.  Tho.se  whom  we  had  come  to 
deliver  rushed  upon  us  with  the  greatest 
fury.  But  perhaps  they  were  just  with- 
out knowledge,  and  crushed  us  i)ecauso  we 
were  defeated  in  our  enterprise,  and  still 
delayed  their  hopes.  1  have  asked,  myself 
if  it  were  not  folly  to  endeavor  to  save 
such  men  in  spi^e  of  themselves  ;  and  if, 
under  the  pretext  of  duty,  we  did  not 
instinctively  obey  the  su  >tle  needs  of  a 
personal  ambition  'i  .'Jut  ni.  w,  when  all  is 
finished  for  me,  and  I  have  no  i'urther 
interest  in  the  things  of  life,  I  reply.  No,  no! 
It  is  not  a  folly  to  save  a  man  in  spite  of 
himself.  It  is  a  duty,  an  absolute  duty  ; 
and,  Tiovan,  never  forget  to  guide  the 
flock  toward  the  light.  Before,  in  sjjeak- 
ing  of  th'MU,  I  was  bitter,  1  was  unjust,  I 
was  resentful,  because  of  my  defeat.  I  was 
wrong:  liiey  are  enveloped  in  obscurity, 
they  are  conducted  and  retained  in  tho 
brutalizing  road  of  servitude.  It  ajjper- 
tains  to  us  to  carry  the  light,  —  the  torch 
of  need.  It  is  our  duty,  our  only  duly,  and 
he  who  fails  is  guilty,  llememberest  thou 
the  words  of  the  dying  Goethe,  which  thou 
hast  often  heard  me  repeat?  Light,  light, 
still  more  light  1  There  are  shadows  that 
hinder  mankind  from  discovering  the  true 
path.  At  any  price  they  mu^it  be  dissi- 
pated. I  speak  myself  of  what  I  believe, 
but  whom  do  I  doubt?  Uave  I  not 
searched  history  ?  and  do  I  not  know  that 
in  some  jjlace  there  is  always  a  vestal 
who  watches  over  the  sacred  fire  ?  That 
suffices  ;  for  it  will  never  be  extinguished, 
and  one  day  it  will  illuir'uo  the  world.  I 
die,  then,  in  peace,  secure  in  my  unshaken 
fiiith.  Giovan,  my  well-beloved  child, 
continue  thy  work  imperturbably ;  and 
thou  shalt  have  in  thy  soul  the  peace 
promised  to  men  of  good-will. 

"  Will  all  be  finished  soon  ?  I  know  not, 
and  1  am  not  anxious.  Life  is  a  mortal 
malaily  :  each  d  ly  that  passes  conducts  us 
toward  the  healing;  and  the  essential  is  to 
heal,  no  matter  how  or  when.  I  believe, 
nevertheless,  that  it  will  not  be  long  :  they 
are  expeditious  here,  and  haste  to  finish. 


!S  of  life ;  but  I  was 
in  wc  had  cuiiie  to 
s  witli  the  greatest 
ley  were  just  with- 
isheil  us  l)eeausc  we 
enterprise,  and  still 
[  have  aske'l  myself 
o  endeavor  to  save 
theiuf'i.'Ives  ;  and  if, 
duty,  we  did  not 
su  'tie  needs  of  a 
Jut  IK  w,  wlien  all  is 
I  have  no  further 
'  life,  1  reply,  No,  no  I 
)  a  man  in  spite  of 
,  an  absolute  duty  ; 
ijr;^et  to  i^uiJe  the 
I.  Before,  in  speak- 
tter,  I  was  unjust,  I 
of  my  deiiiat.  I  was 
lo[)ed  in  obseurity, 
nd  retained  in  tho 
urvitude.  It  aj)per- 
le  light,  —  tho  torch 
y,  our  only  duly,  and 
lleineinberest  thou 
;  Goethe,  which  thou 
jpeatV  Light,  light, 
jre  are  shadows  that 
discovering  iho  true 
they  niu^it  be  dissi- 
If  of  wliat  I  believe, 
jbt  ?  Have  I  not 
do  I  not  know  that 
is  always  a  vestal 
sacred  fire  ?  That 
^er  be  extinguislied, 
um'ue  the  world.  I 
sure  in  my  unshaken 
well-beloved  child, 
imperturbably ;  and 
;hy  soul  the  peace 
od-wiU. 

J  soon  ?  I  know  not, 
3.  Life  is  a  mortal 
t  passes  conducts  us 
nd  tlie  essential  is  to 
or  when.  I  believe, 
ill  not  be  long  :  they 
and  haste  to  finish. 


8YLVERINE. 


171 


AVhen  the  Angel  of  Death,  comes  she  will 
be  welcome  ;  and  she  will  give  the  kiss  of 
peace  to  him  wiio  loves  her. 

"  \h)  not  imagine  that  I  suffer  here.  No, 
I  am  comparatively  well-treated.  My 
chamber  is  large;  and  from  my  window  1 
see  the  city,  and  the  amphitheatre  under 
tlie  liill,  and  I  can  even  perceive  the  place 
where  the  s^oldiers  of  Alaric  tm-iied  the  river 
to  inter  their  general.  Yesterday  I  was 
at  the  casement :  a  woman  passed  carrying 
a  cliild.  She  saw  me,  and  knew,  without 
doubt,  who  F  was.  Falling  on  her  knees, 
she  raised  her  infant  to  war  1  me,  as  if  to 
demand  my  blessing  upon  it.  Tliat  hurt 
ine  :  1  threw  inysclt'  on  my  bed,  and  wept 
freely  in  ihiiikiiig  of  thee. 

"  The  man  who  comes  to  thee  is  sure. 
lie  has  Ijcloiiged  to  us  for  some  lime,  (iio- 
van  will  send  him  to  Saaila,  wlio  will  do 
iijr  him  what  is  necessary. 

'•My  darling  child,  I  would  ein1)race 
thee,  and  iiolil  thee  once  more  tJ  the  heart 
that  adores  thee;  but  that  cannot  be. 
The  will  of  (lod  be  done  !  If,  during  the 
hajjpy  years  1  have  lived  near  thee,  1  have 
caused  thee  some  pain,  Ibrgive  me,  and 
guard  my  memory  as  of  one  who  has  loved 
thee  much.  Tliou  kuowest  that  I  shall 
die  witli  thy  name  upon  my  lips.  Adieu, 
Giovan  I  Adieu,  Sylverine !  Be  happy, 
and  ibrget  not 

"  Youu  Flavio." 

Her  face  bathed  with  tears,  Sylverine 
turned  toward  the  man.  "  Teii  me  all :  I 
will  know  all,''  she  said. 

"  1  will  'rll  you  all  I  know,"  he  replied. 
"  When  I  left,  he  was  not  yet  condemned. 
The  tentence  was  to  be  pronounced  the 
next  day,  or  the  day  after.  Ah  I  he  has  a 
great  heart :  at  the  last  tho  judge  could 
scarcely  sjjeak  to  him." 

"  But  all  Is  not  yet  finished,"  cried  Syl- 
verine :  "  there  is  yet  some  hope.  O  my 
Gou  1  to  be  so  lar  fi-om  hiin  I  Tell  me, 
cannot  we  save  him  yet  ?  " 

The  man  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"  When  once  the  sentence  is  pronounced, 
they  will  forward,  without  doubt,  the  pro- 


ceedings to  Naples.  In  that  case  there 
will  ])ass  some  days  before  the  sentence 
will  be  executed.  But  how  to  s;ivt!  him  Y 
Do  you  believe  they  will  ever  release 
such  prey  V  " 

"  No  matter,"  replied  Sylverine.  "  I 
will  go  to  Naples.  I  am  a  woman,  and 
they  will  allow  me  to  enter  everywhere.  I 
will  y;o  to  the  king.  I  will  throw  myself 
at  his  feet.  Giovan,  wo  must  leave  imme- 
diately, this  instant." 

"  We  will  go,"  said  Giovan  in  a  voice 
so  choked  that  one  could  scarcely  hear 
him  ;  "  and,  if  the  king  refuses  liis  mercy, 
I  will  send  him  to  entreat  his  own  par- 
don of  God  !  " 

An  hour  alter,  they  were  rolling  rapidly 
along  the  road  ii-oin  liaveiina  to  Leghorn, 
by  the  way  of  Florence.  Tliey  scarcely 
sjjoke :  sometimes  Sylverine  wept,  moaned, 
and  wrung  her  hands;  Giovan,  silent  and 
sullen,  resembled  a  chained  lion.  Once  or 
twice  he  (lew  into  a  fearlul  rage  widi  the 
postilion,  who  drove  as  fast  as  ho  could, 
urging  his  horses  at  their  utmost  spc-ed. 

They-  arrived  at  Leghorn,  a  mai-itiine 
city,  in  constant  relation  with  oilier  ])arts 
of  Italy,  always  ready  lor  emancipation, 
and  listening  eagerly  to  the  revoluiionary 
news  that  came  from  the  other  provinces. 
There,  no  doubt  could  remain.  Flavio  w;is 
dead.  The  sentence  of  the  court-marti::! 
had  been  executed  in  twenty-four  Iiours. 
Covered  with  the  black  clotli  of  the  par- 
ricide, his  head  veiled  in  crape,  his  bands 
bound  behind  his  back,  he  had  been  con- 
ducted beyond  the  city,  near  to  the  chapel 
of  Santa  Maria,  where  he  ollered  calmly 
his  breast  to  the  soldiers,  and  fell  on  his 
face  dead,  without  prtuioiiiieing  a  word. 

Sylverine,  with  both  hands  pressed  to 
her  heart,  listened  to  the  sad  recital,  her 
eyes  fixed,  and  her  face  paler  than  death. 
When  it  was  ended,  she  was  seized  with  a 
sort  of  spism  of  rage  ;  and,  turning  toward 
Giovan,  she  cried,  "  Cain  '.  Cain  !  Cain  !  " 
Then  a  Hood  of  tears  calmed  the  storm, 
and  she  fell  into  a  chair  exhausted. 

Giovan  kuelt  betbre  her,  and  ;oi)bed 
with  the  sharp  anguish  of  those  who  know 


r 


172 


THE  DRINKERS   OP  ASHES. 


not   how  to   weep.      "I    have    murtlured 
him  !     I  liiive  munlered  him  !  " 

"Yes,  thou  haat  mm-dered  him!"  s;iiil 
Svlverine,  re'^ariling  him  with  a  eontempt 
eo  deep  that  it  teirilied  liim.  "  Yes,  tliou 
hast  murdered  thy  tVieiid.  It  was  tliy 
selfislmess.  and  thy  cowardice,  that  sent 
him  to  aplaee  of  (h\n-;er  to. which  thou 
didst  not  dare  go.  I  will  see  thee  no  more." 
He  tried  to  stammer  a  reply,  but  she 
would  not  hear  him. 

"  Go,"  she  cried  :  "  I  am  afraid  of  thee. 
I  have  been  insane  to  love  thee,  or,  more, 
to  believe  I  loved  thee.  It  is  ho  that  I 
have  loved.  It  is  the  dear  dead,  that  I 
shall  see  no  more.  Ah  1  the  misery  of  life. 
"What  a  wretched  heart  I  had  wiihin  me, 
to  deceive  him,  and  to  deceive  him  for 
thee  1  " 

Giovan  extended  his  hands  toward  her, 
and  cried,  "  Sylverine  !  Sylverine  !  " 

She  arose  impetuously,  opened  the  door, 
and,  poiniin'^'  to  it  with  a  <:esture  that 
expressed  her  hatred,  she  said,  "  Go,  thou! 
and  may  I  never,  never  see  thee  again. 
There  is  now  between  us  an  abyss  thou 
canst  not  cross.  It  is  the  bloody  grave 
where  Flavio  lies  with  ten  balls  in  his 
breast.     Speak,  not  1     Go,  thou  !  " 

She  pushed  him  outside  the  door  with  an 
astonisliin;^;  violence,  and  closed  it  upon  him. 
"  O  Flavio,  Flavio  !  "  she  cried,"  I  deceived 
thee  in  lile,  but  now  I  swear  to  be  faithful 
to  thee  until  death." 

Giovan  wandered  all  night,  driven  by  a 
tempest  of  passion  and  gi-ief.     He  rushed 
over   fields   and   through   forests    as    one 
insane :  sometimes  he  fell  on  his  face  beneath 
the  trees  and  wept ;  then  he  arose  and  hur- 
ried on  with  rapid  steps,  crying  with  fury, 
and  clenching  Ids  hands  at  the  heavens  as 
though  he  would  insult  and  defy  God.    The 
strongest  contradictions  passed  through  his 
mind.     He  would  go  to  JSIai)les,  raise  the 
people,  barn  the  palace  of  the  king,  slaugh- 
ter  the  soldiers,  hang  the  ministers,  and 
make  fur  Flavio  frightful  obsequies.    Or  he 
would    reject  the  oath  of  the  Drinkers  of 
Ashes,  reconipier  Sylverine,  take  her  with 
him  to  some  other  country,  to  a  house  in  a 


forest,  where  no  one  would  coino  to  disturb 
them.  In  the  morning,  as  he  passed  a  farm- 
house, a  dog  ran  toward  him  and  barked.  lie 
threw  himself  upon  the  animal,  and,  seizing- 
it  by  the  hind  legs,  served  it  as  a  club,  crush- 
ing its  head  against  the  wall  at  a  single  blow. 
The  brutal  stui)idity  of  the  action  r.called 
him  to  himself.  "Have  I,  then,  become 
insane  ?  "  lie  thought.  Toward  the  middle 
of  the  day,  worn  out,  soiled,  and  ghastly,  ho 
returned  to  the  inn  where  he  had  left  Syl- 
verine. She  had  gone,  leaving  a  letter  for 
liim. 

"I  fly  from  thee,"  she  wrote,  "for  I 
know  thy  violence.  I  go  to  hide  my  shame 
at  having  thought  I  loved  thee,  and  my 
desjjair  at  losing  him  whom  I  loved.  Why 
didst  thou  come  into  our  life  ?  Belbre  thy 
arrival  we  were  happy.  Do  not  search  tor 
me  :  thou  wilt  never  find  me.  I  care  for 
nothing,  I  love  nothing,  I  desire  nothing.  I 
._ro  to  await  death,  that  it  may  rid  ine  of  a 
lile  that  thou  hast  rendered  insiipiiortable. 
Adieu.  That  thou  wilt  forget  ine,  is  the 
only  fiivor  I  demand  of  thee  !  " 

Giovan  rushed  through  the  city.  He 
interrogated  the  captains  of  shi[)S.  the  con- 
ductors of  diligences,  he  searched  the  hotels, 
he  questioned  the  officers  in  the  service  of 
the  port,  the  gcndaiines  who  guarded  the 
gates.  It  was  in  vain  :  he  could  not  discover 
Sylverine. 

"  At  daybreak,"  said  the  landlord,  "  the 
lady  paid  her  bill,  and  left  that  letter  lor 
you  :  then  she  went  out  alone,  and  on  foot, 
and  has  not  returned  since." 

Nevertheless,  ailer  much  searching,  he 
found  that  she  had  taken  a  (  iriiage  to 
t"lorence.  He  hastened  after  h(.'r ;  l)Ut 
there  lie  lost  all  trace,  and  wa'^  n(!ver  able 
to  gain  the  slightest  intelligence  afterward. 
He  searched  none  the  less  for  an  entire 
month.  He  was  wretched  without  her,  and 
longed  ardently  to  see  her,  if  but  ibr  once. 
He  even  tried  to  put  in  movement  the 
secret  means  which  the  Drinjcers  of  Ashes 
had  at  their  disposal.  Whereupon  Samla 
wrote  liim. 

»  We  are  not  m.idc  to  calm  the  despair 
of  love.     That  woman  is  your  evil  genius, 


■  »L.'llH»J.I>.IJI 


1(1  coino  to  disturb 
s  he  [lassi'd  a  I'arin- 
iin  iiiid  harked.  IIo 
nnnal,  and,  wilziii^ 
I  it  as  a  cduh,  crusli- 
all  at  a  siii^de  hlnw. 
the  action  r.calK'd 
e  I,  then,  become 
Toward  the  middle 
ed,  and  jjha^tly,  ho 
re  hi!  had  left  8}  I- 
leaving  a  letter  for 

she  wrote,  "for  I 
3  to  hide  my  shame 
ived  thee,  and  my 
lom  I  loved.  Why 
r  life  ?  Belbre  thy 
Do  not  search  for 
[id  me.  I  care  for 
I  desire  nothing.  I 
it  may  rid  ine  of  a 
cred  insiipiiortable. 
It  forget  me,  is  the 
thee  !  " 

ugh  the  city.  He 
us  of  shi[)S.  the  con- 
!  searched  the  hotels, 
irs  in  the  service  of 
IS  who  guarded  the 
ic  could  not  discover 

1  the  landlord,  "  the 
left  that  letter  lor 
t  alone,  and  on  foot, 
ince." 

much  searching,  he 
aken  a  (  iriiage  to 
ned  aftev  h(.'r ;  but 
and  wa*-  ni;ver  able 
telligence  afterward, 
le  less  for  an  entire 
hed  without  her,  and 
her,  if  but  tor  once. 
it  in  movement  the 
e  Drinjcers  of  Ashes 
Whereupon  Sanda 

to  calm  the  despair 
n  is  your  evil  genius, 


SYLVEEINE. 


178 


It  is  because  of  her  that  Flavio  i.")  dead. 
Keep  that  in  remumbrance  1  and  take 
care  that  wo  do  not  demand  of  you,  in 
the  future,  a  severe  account  of  your  con- 
duct." 

Siicli  a  letter  was  not  of  a  nature  to  calm 
Giovan  in  his  state  of  revolt  and  anxiety  ; 
and  he  replied  to  Sanda,  — 

*'  If  I  nmst  not  be  human,  tear  from  my 
heart  the  passions  that  torture  it,  and  I 
will  devote  myself  to  our  work ;  but  first 
thert  is  a  motive  that  urges  me  onwaril, 
though  the  heavens  crush  me.  I  must 
find  Sylverine,  and  1  will  find  her." 

He  then  continued  his  search  with  the 
energy  that  charpcterized  him.  He  ex- 
plored the  neighboring  cities  of  Florence, 
went  to  llavenna  in  the  hope  that  she  had 
returned  there,  and  even  d.ared  to  go  into 
the  city  of  Cosenza.  thinking  that  perhaps 
she  had  hidden  herself  where  Flavio  had 
perished.  It  was  in  vain  :  he  could  not  di^^- 
cover  her.  'I'hen  he  imagined,  that,  to 
conceal  herself  the  letter,  she  had  gone  to 
Home,  tlie  very  camp  of  the  enemy,  the 
place  to  him  especially  perilous,  where  ho 
could  not  venture  without  risking  his  head. 
One  believes  easily  what  one  wishes.  He 
took  a  false  j)asspnrt,  and  arrived  in  Home 
at  the  time  wlien  the  ceremonies  of  Holy 
Week  attract  so  many  strangers.  He  visited 
all  the  hotels,  demanded  impudently  of  the 
police  to  examine  the  register  of  names ; 
and,  instead  of  evading  the  suspicion  that 
his  ])resence  might  excite,  lie  seemed  to  take 
pleasure  in  braving  it.  He  attended  all  the 
ceremonies  of  St.  Peter's,  for  there  he  itoped 
to  find  Sylverine.  He  laughed  under  the 
noses  of  thi;  Swiss  Guards,  dressed  like 
knaves  of  diamonds.  And  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  make  in  public  observations  the 
least  favorable  to  the  government  of  the 
Pope.  One  day,  in  the  gallery  of  the 
Vatican,  while  looking  at  the  picture,  too 
much  praised,  of  the  Commumon  of  St. 
Jerome,  he  heard  a  voice  behind  him  which 
said,  "  The  communion  of  St.  Jerome 
should  make  those  who  h:ive  partaken  of 
it  more  prudent."  He  turned,  and  saw 
an  unknown  man,  who  regarded  him  stead- 


ily, and  added,  "  We  must  never  forget  St. 
Jerome." 

The  unknown  man  went  away;  and  Gio- 
van, always  accustomed  to  mystery,  Ibund 
no  dilUculty  in  understandiu.;  that  the 
phrase,  stripped  of  its  apparent  meaning, 
played  upon  the  name  of  Jerome.,  that  is  to 
say,  upon  the  nanie  of  Savonarola,  and  was 
a  conuntnucation  from  the  Drinkers  of 
Ashes.  He  nevertheless  persisted  in  his  re- 
searches. He  went  to  Tivoli,  lo  Rocca  ill 
Papa,  to  Castel  Gondolfo,  to  FrascatI,  —  in 
short,  everywhere  where  he  supposed  Syl- 
verine could  have  concealed  herself.  One 
morning,  while  walking  through  the  shaily 
road  that  borilers  the  Like  of  Albano,  ho 
found  himself  lace  to  face  with  the  uian 
who  had  spoKen  to  him  in  the  gallery  of  the 
Vatican.  Tlie  unknown  stepped  lieroio 
(iiovan,  and  said  to  him,  '•  She  whom  thou 
seekest  is  not  here.  It  is  useless  to  search  : 
thou  wilt  not  find  her." 

"Where  is  she,  then  ?'' demanded  Gio- 
van. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  that,"  replied  the  man  ; 
"  but  I  have  come  to  warn  you.  They  i)e- 
gin  to  suspect  you  ii.  U)me.  It  is  time  tor 
you  to  leave  if  you  would  not  stay  here 
always." 

'•  Ah  !     Who  has  sent  you  V  " 

"  Tbo«e  with  wlwm  you  have  partaken 
the  communion." 

"  Well,  go  to  them,  and  say  that  I  dety  all 
Rome,  and  that  I  shall  remain  here  as 
as  long  as  it  pleases  me  to  do  so." 

The  man  t  miled  pityingly,  saluted  Giovan, 
and  went  away. 

Three  days  after  the  nnhapt,  young  man 
returned  to  Rome.  One  everdng,  as  he 
walked  solitary  along  the  deserted  space 
that  borders  the  Tiber,  beyond  M  juat  .Vven- 
tine,  three  men  rushed  upon  him,  enveloped 
him  in  a  mantle,  and  forced  him  into  a  car- 
riage that  rolled  away  swiftly  toward  the 
Campitfjita.  Before  the  Ijreak  of  day  they 
had  arrived  at  the  little  |)ort  of  Fiumicino. 
There,  on  the  deck  of  a  vessel  that  awaited 
them,  one  of  his  captors  gave  him  a  letter 
from  San^la. 

"  Knowinjj   that   thou  wilt  never   over 


174 


THE  DRINKEliS  OV  ASHES. 


come  thysulf,"  wrote  he,  "  necessity  com-  ] 
pels  us  to  use  such  inoiiiis  to  recall  thee 
to  tliy  senses,  ami  to  save  thee.  The 
hour  will  soon  ari-ive  when  we  shall 
need  all  the  energy  which  thou  expendest 
so  badly.  Couio  to  ;  le  ininiediiitely  ;  and 
later  thou  shall  iierhaps  know  where  she  is 
whom  thou  hast  so  vainly  sou;^ht." 

Always  watcheil,  hut  treated  as  a  master 
by  his  attendants,  Giovan  arrived  at 
Genoa;  and  from  there  he  hastened  to 
Sauila,  whom  1  have  said  lived  beyond  Jor- 
dan. On  seeing  him  his  first  words  were, 
"  Where  is  Sylverine  V  " 

"  Thou  shalt  know  later,"  replied  Samla ; 
and  then  he  added,  with  an  expression  not 
habitual  on  his  impassive  face,  "  the  time 
when  thou  canst  see  her  will  come  all  too 
soon  tor  thee." 

In  spite  of  his  rebellion,  Giovan  was 
curbed  hetijro  that  will  of  iron  which  none 
could  resist.  He  commenced  to  work  with 
a  fiery  energy,  thinking  it  would  distract  his 
thoughts  from  the  one  maddening  remem- 
brance, but  it  had  no  effect ;  and,  although 
the  name  of  Sylverine  never  passed  his  lii)s, 
he  thought  of  her  continually.  She  reigned 
tyrannically  over  his  heart,  thereby  remind- 
ing him  of  Flavio,  and  kee|)ing  alive  a  fire 
of  remorse  that  nothing  could  extinguish. 

Two  years  had  passed,  — two  long  and 
wearisome  years.  No  action  had  taken 
place  to  occupy  the  mind  of  Giovan,  neither 
had  any  news  arrived  to  him  of  Sylverine ; 
yet  he  was  no  more  accustomed  nor  resigned 
to  his  sorrow.  One  day  Samla,  more  serious 
than  usual,  entered  his  room  and  gave  him 
a  letter.  "  Thou  canst  go  to  her  now,"  he 
said :  "  at  last  thou  art  about  to  be  I'rtsa." 

Giovan  took  tlie  letter,  and  opened  it  with 
a  beating  heart ;  for  he  at  once  recognized 
the  writing  of  Sylverine.  It  contained  but 
a  line,  that  seemed  traced  by  a  feeble  hand. 
"  I  am  at  I'isa.  I  am  dying,  and  I  would 
see  thee." 

Giovan  was  not  long  in  reaching  Pisa, 
and  hastening  to  the  house  of  Sylverine. 
When  he  saw  her,  he  started  with  terror  ; 
for  she  vtiw  only  the  ghost  of  herself.  Her 
sunken  eyes,  surrounded  by  purple  shadows 


seemed  to  (loat  in  sockets  too  large  for  them ; 
the  transparent  temples  showed  the  violet 
veins ;  an  opa([iie  jjallor  gave  to  her  com- 
plexion the  whiteness  of  wax  ;  her  lips,  thin 
and  parched,  showed  her  discoloreil  teeth  ; 
and   her   long,  emaciated   hands   had   the 
vague  gestures  of  an  incomi)arable  languor. 
She  had  said  truly  ;  she  was  dying,  —  wast- 
ing away  slowly  and  without  ouHering,  con- 
sumed by  one  of  those  mysteri(uis  maladies 
where  the  mind  and  the  body  n!-act  one 
upon    the   other.     A    doctor   would   have 
said,  "  She  is  dying  of  dyspepsia  ;  "  a  phi- 
losopher w^iild  have  said,  "  She  is  dving  of 
sorrow:"   and    neither    would   have    been 
wrong. 

A  feeble  smile  lighted  her  face,  and  a 
fugitive  Hush  passed  over  her  thin  cheek, 
when  she  saw  Giovan  enter. 

"  1  am  glad  to  see  thee,"  she  said  ;  "  for  I 
could  not  go  to  Fhivio  until  1  had  clasped 
thy  hand  once  more." 

Her  hours  were  numbered  :  each  one  that 
passed   increased   her   weakness.     Giovan 
never  left   her.     He   remained    near   her, 
tender,   anxious,   almost    womanly    in   his 
gentle  care,  watching  with  terror  the  rapid 
proiiress  the  disease  made  from  day  to  day. 
She"  sull'ered  no  i)ain.     The  sjjirit  seemed 
to  leave  little  by  little  the  exhausted  body. 
They  spoke  seldom,  but  always  of  Flavio. 
Shelovcd  to  recall  the  first  happy  days  of 
her  acquaintance  with  the  regretted  dead. 
The  time  seemed  so  long  to  her  since  she 
lost  him,  and  she  was  so  near  death,  that 
she  believed  herself  to  be  old.     Sometimes 
she  said  to  Giovan,  "  Dost  thou  remember 
when  we  were  young  V  "  Often  she  remained 
for  hours,  immobile,  silent,  her  eyes  closed, 
her  head  turned  away,  and  her  hands  tbld- 
ed  serenely,  giving  no  sign  of  lilt:  save  a 
sort  of  mechanical  moan  that  wrung  the 
heart  of  Giovan.     One  ilay  a  low  sob  tell 
upon   her  i;ar :   she   raised  her  eyes  with 
eilbrt,  and   saw  Giovan  leaning   over  her 
bed,  weeping  to  see  her  die.     She  had  no 
convulsions,  no  agony,  none  of  the  terrible 
combats,   where   life   and  death    seem   to 
}  struggle  with  each  other.     She   spoke  of 
I  Flavio,  extended  her  damp  hand  to  Gio- 


SYLVERINE. 


175 


ts  too  liifiTC  for  them ; 
■s  showi'd  the  violet 
ai"  gave  to  her  eoiii- 
af  wax;  her  lips,  thin 
lu'r  (liaeoloreil  teeth ; 
ited  hands  had  the 
iiuomparable  lan;^iior. 
le  was  dying,  —  wast- 
nthout  Bulleriiig,  con- 
i  mysterious  maladies 
the  body  rti-act  one 
doctor  would  have 
r  dyspepsia  ;  "  a  phi- 
laid,  "  She  is  dving  of 
iv    would   have   been 

hted  her  face,  and  a 
over  her  thin  cheek, 
1  enter, 
hee,"  she  said  ;  "  for  I 

io  until  I  had  clasped 

f» 

mbei-ed  :  each  one  that 
,'r   weakness.     Giovan 
!   remained    near   her, 
nost    womanly    in   his 
■r  with  terror  the  v;i\n<l 
made  fi'om  day  to  day. 
in.     The  si)ii-it  seemed 
lo  the  exhausted  body, 
but  always  of  Flavio. 
the  first  hajjpy  days  of 
ilh  the  regretted  dead. 
3  long  to  her  since  she 
ras  so  near  death,  that 
to  be  old.     Sometimes 
'■  Dost  thou  remember 
r  V  "  Often  she  remained 
silent,  her  eyes  closed, 
-ay,  and  lier  hands  fold- 
no  sign  of  HIl:  save  a 
moan  that  wrung  the 
One  day  a  low  sob  fell 
i  raised  her  eyes  with 
iovan  leaning   over  her 
e  her  die.     She  had  no 
ny,  none  of  the  terrible 
le   and  death    seem   to 
I  other.     She   spoke  of 
ler  damp  hand  to  Gio- 


van, breathed  a  light  sigh,  and  died.  II(! 
watched  over  iier  while  a  priest  murmured,  i 
in  a  low  voice,  the  consecrated  orisons, 
regarding,  without  power  to  move  his  eyes, 
the  form  innnovaide  forever.  It  seemeil 
impossible  that  she  was  dead.  Once  he 
called  aloud,  "  Sylverine  !  Sylverine  I  "  in 
a  voice  broken  with  fatigue,  grief,  and  sobs. 
Then  a  heavy  stupor  fell  upon  him,  and  he 
slept,  overcome  by  watching  and  weariness. 
When  he  awoke,  day  had  already  dawned. 
He  looked  from  his  window  :  the  swallows 
floated  in  the  blue  heavens ;  the  Arno 
flowed  peacefully,  with  a  sad,  monotonous 
'plaint.  When  he  returned  to  the  funeral 
chamber,  and  saw  Sylverine,  u|)on  whom 
death  had  already  strewn  its  pale  (lowers, 
he  cried,  "  All  1  how  can  day  dawn  alter 
such  a  night  Y  " 

During  the  religious  ceremony,  which 
was  held  in  the  cathedral,  Giovan  had 
only  a  confused  consciousness  of  the  sad 
event.  He  suffered  in  an  intolerable  man- 
ner, thinking  of  Sylverine  and  Flavio;  of 
j>  the  work  of  the  Drinkers  of  Ashes,  their 

efforts  always  frustrated,  always  deleated  ; 
of  the  great  motive  that  had  directed  all 
their  actions,  and  tor  which  Flavio  had  been 
sacrificed;  and  regarding  the  great  bronze 
lamp  that  is  suspended  to  the  ceiling  by  a 
long  cord,  and  whose  oscillations  revealed 
to  Galileo  the  theory  of  the  pendulum,  he 
said,  as  did  the  great  Pisan,  "  Nevertheless, 
it  moves  I  " 

Sylverine  reposes  in  the  Campo  Santo, 
not  far  from  the  fresco  Orgagna  painted  of 
Christ,  showing  his  wounds,  to  teach  men 
that  life  is  but  one  long  scene  of  siiiferiug. 
Beside  the  spot  where  she  sleeps  forever, 
Giovan  bought  two  burial  places.  One  can 
understand  for  whom  they  were  intended. 

At  last  free,  as  Samla  had  cruelly  said, 
be  returned  to  his  post,  that  is  to  say,  Kaven- 
na.  Gloomy,  sullen,  and  s".ent,  ho  lived 
among  men  like  one  in  a  desert.  In  1848 
he  threw  himself  into  action  with  a  blind 
fury,  as  though  he  had  something  per- 
sonal to  avenge.  He  was  everywhere. 
At  Naples,  at  Cortonc,  at  Milan,  upright 
uncovered,  always  in  the  front  rank,  he  as- 


toidslied  the  most  hardy  by  liis  recklessness. 
They  called  him  "  the  invulnerable,"  tor 
death  seemed  to  avoid  him  in  spite  of  the  ad- 
vances lie  made.  When  he  knew  that  many 
of  their  hopes  were  vanishing  bctbre  the 
counter  revolution,  —  that  in  Italy,  Hun- 
gary, and  everywhere,  the  cause  he  loved 
would  return  again  to  silence  and  shadows, 
—  he  conceiveil  with  Samla  the  project  of 
bringing  into  Italy,  /ev  uniK'e.i  AJar/i/wcs 
attacked  on  the  Danube  by  the  Ausirians. 
In  spite  of  perils  without  number,  and  ad- 
ventures usi'li;ss  to  recount,  he  reached 
Transylvania,  and  entreated  Bern  to  block- 
ade Venice,  ami  to  conunetice  a  strug- 
gle between  the  Adriatic  and  Mincio;  but 
he  was  too  late.  The  destiny  of  Ilimgary, 
fixed  by  the  ca|)itulation  of  Villagos,  forced 
Bem  to  seek  a  ref\ige  in  Tui'key. 

Wlien  Giovan  returned  to  Venice,  there 
also  all  was  over.  Hushing  insanely  to 
Ferrara,  then  occup:e<l  by  the  Austrians, 
he  endeavored  to  renew  the  combat.  He 
was  taken,  judged,  and  condemned,  not  to 
be  shot  as  a  soldier,  but  to  be  hung  as  a 
bandit.  The  sentence  pronounced  in  tli.' 
morning  was  to  be  executed  the  same  even- 
ing. At  sunset  Giovan  was  in  his  cell, 
sitting  upon  the  bundle  of  straw  that  served 
for  his  bed,  calm,  immobile,  absorbed  in 
the  retrospective  contempluion  of  his  life, 
which  seemed  to  pass  betore  him  with  won- 
derful distinctness  in  the  last  hour.  The 
door  opened,  and  an  Ilieronymite  monk 
entered,  —  one  of  those  whose  rules  are  so 
austere  that  the  people  of  the  Ucubrias 
take  them  for  sorcerers. 

"  I  do  not  wish  a  confessor,"  said  Gio- 
van sternly. 

The  monk  made  a  sign  for  the  jailer  to 
leave.  Then,  raising  the  hood  from  his 
eyes,  he  walked  toward  the  prisoner  and 
said,  — 
"  In  nominejratri^  Hieronymi,  salve  !  " 
"  Samla,"  cried  Giovan,  recognizing  his 
voice.  Then,thvowlng  himself  in  hisfriend's 
arras,  he  said  ■'  I  will  not  be  saved." 

"  I  have  Mot  come  to  save  thee,"  replied 
Samla  ,  who,  having  fled  from  Uonie,  had 
found  an  asylum  in  a  convent  near  Ferrara. 


1T6 


THE  DrjNKERS  OF  ASHES. 


«'  I  have  not  come  to  8:ive  thee ;  for  I  know 
well  that  thou  hiist  thirst  of  deiUh.  1  have 
come  to  know  tliy  hist  wishes,  and  to  uxe- 
cilte  them  il  i)()ssii)ic." 

In  th(!  i)resen<'e  of  the  >:rim  monster, 
(;ic)van  lhoii;j;lit  hut  of  Sylverine.  "  There 
is  one  thin^i,"  said  he, "  which  thou  must 
promise  me;  and  that  is,  that  thou  wilt  re- 
move my  hody  to  the  Camiio  Santo,  at  I'isa. 
and  place  it  beside  Sylverino." 

A  smile  of  jiity  passed  over  the  face  of 
Sanila,  as  he  replied,  "  I  promise  it ;  but  is 
there  nothin;;  else  'I  " 

"  Nothini,',"  saiil  Giovan  :  "  all  my  life 
was  engrossed  in  that  passion  ;  and  I  have 
cared  ibr  nothing  else  since  1  lost  her." 

They  sat  side  by  side  on  the  bundle  of 
straw,  and  talked  toi^ether  as  thou'^h  death 
did  not  wait  at  the  <loor.  Samla  spoke  of 
his  jjrojects ;  lor,  with  him,  hoi)e  was  inde- 
structible, as  well  as  conviction.  "  This  is 
but  another  delay,"  said  he:  "we  must 
know  how  to  await  our  time."  Then,  after 
a  short  silence,  he  said  to  Giovan,  "  Art 
thou  very  sure  there  is  nothing  more  thou 
desircst  Y  " 

"  Whatever  I  may  desire,  amounts  to 
nothing,"  replied  Giovan.  "In  an  hour  I 
shall  be  hung.  It  is  very  foolish,  I  know, 
to  dispute  upon  the  outward  form  of  death; 
but  to  make  gnmaces  on  a  scaffold  belbre 
people  who  will  clap  their  liands,  I  avow 
that  tortures  and  humiliates  me.  I  would 
have  died  as  Flavio  died,  by  and  before 
the  carbines." 

» I  cannot  give  thee  carbines,"  said  Sam- 
la,  "  but  I  can  tell  thee  how  to  evade  the 
rope.    Take  this,"  said  he,  giving  a  little 


bottle.  "  See  my  provision  of  deliverance.  I 
have  kept  it  for  a  solemn  occasion.  Use  it 
dear  child;  and  ilie  with  the  consolation 
that  thou  wilt  not  be  a  spectacle  for  the 
curious  and  iudill'crcnt." 

An  hour  after,  when  they  entered  the  cell 
of  Giovan  to  comluct  him  to  tho  plice  of 
execution,  they  found  him  extended  upon 
the  floor,  cold  and  dead,  and  around  hint  a 
strange  perfume  of  bitter  almond. 

A  doctor,  called  in  haste,  declared  that 
ho  was  poison(Hl  by  a  powerful  dose  of 
cyanhydriiiue  acid.  The  body  was,  never- 
tiieless,  hung  as  an  example. 

Tho  last  wish  of  (Jiovan  has  been  exe- 
cuted. He  reposes  near  to  Sylverinc  ;  and 
Flavio  also  has  been  united  to  them.  In 
the  first  days  of  the  month  of  SeptembiT, 
IHGO, after  Garibaldi  had  taken  the  city  of 
Cosenza,  the  body  of  Flavio  was  removed 
from  the  little  chapel  of  Sauta  Maria, 
where  it  had  been  placed,  and  brought  to 
tho  Metropolitan  Church.  There  it  was 
recttived  with  military  honors,  to  the  sound 
of  bells  and  the  report  of  cannon  ;  then  it 
was  placed  upon  a  caisson  of  artillery,  and, 
accompanied  by  an  escort,  it  was  carried 
to  Pola,  embarked  to  Leghorn,  and  from 
thence  to  Pisa. 

Those  who  wore  separateil  in  life  are  to- 
day forever  uniteil  in  death.  Upon  their 
tombs  one  reads  simply  their  names,  — 

GIOVAN.      8YLVF.RINE.      FLAVIO. 

which  crosses  an  epitaph  of  a  single  line,  — 
Eccl.  vii.  26,  "  And  1  find  more  bitter  than 
death  the  woman  whose  heart  is  snares, 
and  whose  hands  are  chains." 


s 


THE  EKD. 


.1 


I  .III  |H|inn« 


on  of  deliverance.  T 
»  OLHMsioii.  Use  it 
ith  the  eonsoliition 
a  spectacle  for  tlic 

licy  entered  the  cell 
ill!  to  the  plice  of 
liin  extended  iipnn 
1,  and  around  hint  a 
r  almond. 

laste,  declared  that 
])iiwcrftil    dose   of 
10  body  was,  never- 
nplo. 

)van  lias  been  exe- 
r  to  Sylverine  ;  and 
inited  to  theni.  In 
lonth  of  SepteinbiT, 
id  takon  the  city  of 
<'lavia  was  rouioved 
1  of  Santa  Maria, 
[;ed,  and  brought  to 
•ch.  There  it  was 
honors,  to  the  soiuid 
of  cannon  ;  then  it 
son  of  artillery,  and, 
scort,  it  was  carried 
Leghorn,  and   from 

arated  in  life  are  to- 
death.  Upon  their 
f  their  names,  — 

BINE.      FLAVIO. 

[)h  of  a  sin;;le  line,  — 
hid  more  bitter  than 
ose  heart  is  snares, 
;hains." 


m^v 


1l 

- 


POPULAR  NEW  BOOKS. 


WHAT    TO    WEAR. 

lU    r.I.lZAIIETIl    StUAKT    I'llKI.PH,  mitlioriit  "The  (iilliM  Ajiir,  "  "  IUcl«rll  In,"  etc.      1vol. 
ir.iin).     l'ii|H'i-,  50  cents;  Cldtli,  •>  l.(H». 

A  sin^ll  lioiik  of  uroiit  impoitiiiicu  unci  intcivsi  to  wdnicu,  MUs  I'hulps,  with  tli.'  dii'cctnpHs  and 
eiirncstiK'h-  which  clninictcri/u  her  nthcr  wihiii;,'s,  iii(,a'-*  cui'tiiin  changes  which  sho  iv-mas  as  icl'orni.t 
nuicli  mi'ilrd  in  WDinun's  druss. 

THE   OTIIKIl   C;iRLS. 

lU  Mr-*   a.  1).  T.  AVuiTNi-.v,  nnthor  of  "  l-c^he  doldtlnvnite,"  "  Wo  Gifls,"  » 

"  Uciil  Folks"  i;f'''  <  vol.  lu'ino.  «a.(ili. 
••  Kr.mi  til.'  dc'iid  level  ,.f  commniiplaoe,  or  tha  pyrotechnics  of  sennatUiimlUm,  ^yllidl  are  clmnioteriMtic  of  nine  tenths  of  the 
(icain  <.f  tlie  iliiy,  one  turns  with  Keimlue  relief  to  a  pure,  wh.il  •*  .me,  nn,\  eiirn  'St  story  lilte  '  The  Other  Oirl».'  .  .  The 
interest  of  the  xtory  never  llaw,  it  is  full  of  incllent  ftm\  .'iclion,  nn.l  is  eminently  imtur-l  iinil  lifelike.  Scattered  throimh  iti 
pws  are  hits  of  fresli  thoii,;ht  an.l  heiiifol  suKKeslion,  which  l.y  Ih.ir  kin.liy  wisdom,  no  less  than  hy  their  terse  exprea.lon, 
,„e  titled  to  iLCome  proverhs  and  '  h.nwehol  I  wor.ls  '  Of  iili  the  conceptions  of  yimnn  womanhont  which  Action  ha»  given 
us,  we  know  of  few  so  luitnrai  iind  loViitde  us  llel  Uree.''  —  ll.:iliiii  Juiirual. 


MEMOIR  OF   A   BROTHER. 

Bv  Thomas  IIuciiiKs,  Author  of    "Tom   I'.iown's  School-Days    at  l{nt?hy,"  etc. 
•'  1vol.     laino.     9\.M. 

"The  imthor  of  'Tom  Urown's  S.-hool-Pays  '  has  puldislied  another  work,  wldch  will,  we  tliink,  stiii  m..re  endear  him  in 
the  r.K'urd  of  Ins  innumerahie  admirers.  It  is  entitled  '  A  Memoir  of  a  llrother.'  Very  hkeiy  f.w  of  us  knew  that  he 
had  1  hrother ;  and  it  may,  at  first  Idush,  seem  unreasonable  to  expect  lli.it  the  life  of  one  who  had  n.i  place  in  the  puhlie  eye, 
who  was  neither  author  nor  .talesman,  only  a  retirinK  private  country  Kentieman,  sho.Ud  have  any  interest  heyond  the 
domeJtic  circle,  least  of  all  that  it  should  attract  tlie  attention  of  readers  on  tlds  side  the  Atlantic.  Neverthcieas,  having 
read  it  with  evev-increasiiiB  adinlratiun  f.,r  l.olh  sulyect  and  writer,  we  v.iitur..  to  say,  no  mem.iir  has  recently  heen  olTered 
to  llie  notice  of  our  countrymen  more  Berviceahle  t..  promote  higli  and  wholeforae  living  than  tliis  of  Ueorge  K.  Hughes.  - 
BiiaUni  MnrtUrr. 


JS. 


LARS: 

[Pastoral    of  IS'or^vay. 


By  B.vYAitn  Taylok >  v"'-     "'">o-     ''•'''"• 

" '  Lsrs  •  Is  a  lovely  rustic  story  of  semi-modern  peasant  life  in  Norway  i  not  esactlya  slory  of  to-day,  hut  dating  back  to 

the  earlier  settlement  of  our  own  country,  whera  the  scene  of  an  epifode  of  the  p«m  is  laid.     There  Is  a  most  charming 

simplicity  about  the  book,  which  is  in  be.utifal  keeping  with  the  tiume ;  indeed  it  is  pervad.;.!  from  tirst  to  last  with  a 

sweet,  subdued  lijilit,  just  sucli  as  ought  to  emhiim  a  Qaaker  story."  —  Richmond  Inquirer. 

"  Kull  of  sweetness  and  .lignity.     It  will  afford  enjoymcDl  of  the  highest  order  to  those  who  can  appreciate  genuine  poetic 

power."  —  EiijiHsk  Independent. 


PALMETTO    LEAVES, 

A  Volume  of  Sketches  of  Southern  Scenery,  Life,  and 

Character. 

Bv  ITAnuiET  Bkkcheu  Stowk.     1  v<d.     Small  4to.     Ilh.stratid.     $2.00. 
"XothinK  from'the  pen  of  Mrs.  Stowe  has  been  more  bauUrul  thai  these  .ketches  of  life  and  .jature  in  '""'■'''«•    ™« 
pictur...  she  draws  are  so  elu,rmin«  tlMt  one  fancies  the  p.ninsula  must  be  a  paradise,  and  tliat  each  day  is  a  t'^n,\  y.o\uUy 
Any  one  who  wishes  a  delightful  excursion  to  the  lan.l  of  flowers  has  only  to  turn  over  these  '  I'almetto  Leaves,  and  he  has  ^ 
it.''  —  ^Ww  Yurk  Ofisrroer.  ^_    ,      ,      . ,     ',     ■ 


•#*  For  sale  by  Booksellers. 


Sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  Publishers, 


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1 


%■ 


'I'iireads.' 


Osgood's  Library  of  Novels. 


Ml  -^SUS    JAMKS    U.   OSC.OOl)    .V   (  <i.   wonia    <;ill   all.  ntioii   t-   this   !*erics  of  Nuvclx, 
M  con.i.risc*  nK.i.V  of  tl.c  best  luul  n,<,st  readable  ..f  new  Knulish  aiul  Anurican  Works 
u(  I'iction.    •Iranslations  from  the  best  ImciicI.  and  C.erman  authors  are  aUo  included. 

•|-l.cse  \ovcls  arc  now  appcarins  reyularly.  Tlicy  are  unually  illustrat-  ,1,  an<l  done  up  in  i 
Uandsomclvninamcnted  cover  of  new  and  unicjue  design.  The  prices  range  from  2$  cents  to 
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ir.  Tho  3It'nilM'r  for  I»arN.    Ity  Tu..is  Kk.ii.ks.    I'ricc  7.S  »f  ""■  * 

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4.  Can  the  Old  love?     Hv /-M'KL  1!arni;s  Uuum.NdioN.    Illustratvd.    rnc7s^ents. 
5!  Kato  Beaumont.     Hy  J.  W.  DkK.uesi.    lllustr.-itcd.    I'ricc  73 '^"t^. 
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8.  Only  Three  Weeks.    Price  50  cents. 
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11.  Soniethhiff  ti>   I>0.     Price  75  cents. 

12.  Ina.     Hy  Kaiiikuink  Vai.f.kio.     Pri.e  75  cents. 
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14.  Cesarine  Dietrich.    Py  Ci-.<«ii<-.r- -Sanh.    Price  75  cents. 

15.  A  Kolllnjf  Stone,     llv  CF.naii-  Sand.     Price  50  cents.  .'.i    ^ 
1«.  Handsome   Lnvrence.    Uy  c:i.mu.;i:  .Sand.    Price  50  cents.  . 

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18.  Tlie  Mystery  of  Orcival.    By  Emile  (Iahoriau.    Price  75  cents. 
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21.  Love  "and  Valor.    By  Tom  Hood. 

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24.  The  Ladv  oi'  liyndon.    Price  75  cents. 
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27.  Not  Easily  Jealous.    Price  75  cents. 

28.  The  Lerouere  Affair.    By  I'.mii.k  (;ai!oriau.     Price  75  cents. 
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;}0.  Ready-Money  Mortiboy.    Bv  tlie  authors  of  ■'  My  Little  fiirl,"  &c 
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34.  The  Pawned  Diamond.    P.y  Kmii.e  Camoriac    In  the  press. 


I'rice  75  cents, 
'rice  75  cents. 


Dther  attractive  Novels  in  preparation. 


OSGUOD'.S   EIltKAKY   OE   NOVELS  is  for  sale  by  all  booksellers  and  newsdealers,  or 
»      will  be  sent,  postpaid,  by  the  Publishers, 

JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    &    CO.,    Boston. 

(Laie  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osg.w.l,  l^  (.:o.) 


„j„.-__-^ 


Novels. 


1  til  this  seric*  I  if  Novels, 
iiglish  and  Anuriiaii  Wcirks 
re  also  included. 

iii-itratrd,  :m<l  done  up  in  a 
ces  range  from  25  cents  to 
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( 


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lllnstr.it' a.     I'lie  75  tents. 

■ice  75  1  I  Mt'i. 

kVovcMi    of    Manv  'liireads." 


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<u,     l'ri<c  75  cents. 


('  75  cents. 


nits. 


B  75  cents. 

Veil.''     Trice  75  cents. 


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cents. 
le  fjirl,"  &c.      I'rice  75  cents 

ireads."     Trice  75  cents, 
lie  press. 

ic  in'ess. 


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